


The price of freedom

by Evil_Keshi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Modern Royalty, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Keshi/pseuds/Evil_Keshi
Summary: If Jon thought about it, then yes, he could agree that kidnapping the Crown Prince was the best way for the antimonarchists to finally be heard and noticed. Too bad they got the wrong prince, though.





	1. Moat Cailin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome on this new adventure! I promised it a while ago, now it begins... I really hope you'll like this new story, which is my first chaptered Jonmund but still with a modern setting as I love these AU's so much. Tags and main characters will be added as it goes, so I don't spoil too much right off the bat. Enjoy!

  


This was the kind of official event that Jon loathed the most. He could deal with some social gatherings or economic missions, even enjoyed the rare diplomatic trips he was allowed to make here and there, delighted at the prospect of travelling and seeing other sceneries than the familiar streets and buildings of Winterfell. He loved his city with his whole heart but sometimes, the castle and some of its occupants felt stuffy, asphyxiating, and he welcomed change whenever he got it, if only for a little while.

This, however? This masquerade? He'd rather have stayed in Winterfell and let his siblings accompany their father to Moat Cailin without him, instead of attending this ceremony where hypocrites who disagreed with his father and criticised him on national television came to shake his hand with a huge smile, while photographers took pictures to immortalise that moment. It made him sick.

Of course this was an important day that no politician would miss: one did not simply ignore the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Rebellion, the uprising that had resulted in the division of the country between the North and the South, each ruled by a king. King Robert Baratheon in the South, King Eddard Stark in the North, best friends both crowned after their victory on the Targaryens, blah blah blah. Jon knew the story, just like everyone else in the two kingdoms.

"You look even broodier than usual," a cheerful voice said beside him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Jon groaned and turned his head to look at Robb, looking perfect in his sharp tux and bowtie, "I'm just bored."

"Bored?" his brother exclaimed, a large smile adorning his lips while he looped one arm around Jon's neck, "How can you be bored on a night like this? Look around you!"

Robb's infectious grin as he spun, gesturing at their surroundings with his left hand, helped Jon crack a tiny smile. Alright, so maybe the three abandoned but still-standing towers of Moat Cailin were impressive. The brothers were standing in a long and wide room that most archaeologists agreed to believe was a reception hall due to several direct accesses to immense, antique kitchens that, manned with the right amount of cooks, would have made it easy to prepare and serve meals for hundreds. They hadn't found any vestige of furniture like tables or seats in the hall however, but then again, pillagers had come and gone long before the old castle started to interest modern scientists.

The builders of Moat Cailin were long-forgotten and their intentions for the rooms they'd designed unknown but still their masterpiece endured, as it had for centuries, and Jon could admit that the place was a good choice for the commemorations of the Rebellion. It was a symbol that destruction didn't have to be the end: were the towers not magnificent tonight, after all the pain they'd witnessed through history, now illuminated by the expensive lighting system Tywin Lannister had so gracefully paid for?

The architecture and the coloured, changing lights were not all Robb encompassed, however, as his eyes shot in all directions, from the orchestra playing beneath the architrave of a large portal to the buffet dressed between two columns, where dignitaries were queuing up to order their drinks and grab one or two bouchées. Five stewards were busy serving cocktails and neat alcohols, febrile hands as they grabbed bottle after bottle growing steady when they poured the drinks and carried heavy trays. All the lords, dukes and marquises, countesses and ministers, hopeful politicians and selected artists were watched by the security agents stationed at the three entrances of the room, their dark suits blending with the colour of the walls.

On top of all that, Robb also meant the girls - of course. Girls loved Robb, drawn to him like sunflowers to beams of light, their eyes almost literally taking the shape of hearts as they looked right through Jon and stared at the Crown Prince, heir to King Eddard. To be honest, Jon really didn't mind that their interest didn't lie in him: he would have made a fool of himself trying to fend them off. It was far easier when Robb held their full and undivided attention.

"They're looking at you," his oblivious brother giggled in his ear as he caught sight of several girls standing a bit farther away from them, daughters, nieces or cousins of this or that lord Jon didn't remember the name of.

"Don't be stupid," Jon said, rolling his eyes, "You're all they're staring at."

"Just because you don't like girls doesn't mean _they_ don't like you," Robb shot back in a quiet whisper so that no one else could hear him. "Come on, let's go and say hi!"

Robb ignored Jon's spluttering to grab his arm and drag him towards the girls - young women, really, dressed up to the nines for this royal event. One of them looked liker her feet were killing her, trapped in shoes with heels so high Jon would have been taller than Robb if he'd tried them on - before falling flat on his face, most likely.

"Ladies," Robb greeted them with his naturally charming smile, the smooth fucker, "Good evening."

"Your Highness," one of them squeaked, blushing, and the others repeated the formal address, staring wide-eyed at Robb and this close to fumble for their phones to ask for a selfie with the Crown Prince.

Not a spare look for Jon who was standing _right there_ , not any form of acknowledgment whatsoever, as usual. He was often treated like he was a shadow and barely existed at all, he whose very presence at Winterfell brought shame to the Stark family and, most of all, to Queen Catelyn. He used not to understand her hatred toward him, why she shoved him back when he tried to hug her as a toddler. _Bastard_ , the newspapers would say of him in their columns whenever they covered an event relating to the royal family, and he had not realised what they meant until he was old enough to grasp why his last name was Snow and not Stark like his siblings or his father.

Jon glanced at the towers high above their heads, not even pretending to pay attention to the attempted discussion going on between his brother and the women. The North was littered with sturdy castles and thick walls, meant to survive the cold winters it was often victim of in the past centuries, while elegant palaces filled the South. According to Sansa who dreamed of the South far too often for a Northerner, true refinement and finesse could be found in places like Highgarden where culture and art were promoted with the generous, financial help of Olenna Tyrell. King's Landing took the palm however, still according to Sansa, who gushed on many occasions about how fashion was set in the southern capital and influenced all designers in the kingdoms - even north of the border.

While Jon didn't care much for this kind of considerations, he knew a bit about the history of King's Landing and the Iron Throne on which King Robert currently sat - he knew of the blood that had been shed for it, of the families that had been torn apart to keep it, of the sacrifices and killings that had been perpetrated in its name. He sometimes wondered how someone would want to sit on such a thing, when it was the cause to so many past horrors, the last one not older than twenty-five years.

Jon eventually tuned in the discussion again and listened half-heartedly to one of the young women saying that she and her cousins had never travelled up so far north as they came from the other side of the border but had gotten their invitations from King Robert himself, who was throwing simultaneous commemorations in the South and had given them this wonderful opportunity as their great-great-grand-uncle once removed... or something like that, Jon wasn't focused to the point of being certain and Robb looked like he regretted engaging them in conversation.

He was a gentleman but even he didn't look forward to having a full genealogy delivered to him. The ladies on the other hand, looked really happy to explain how they'd gotten there and what they expected of their trip North, kindly suggesting that Robb joined them on their adventure since having a Northerner on their side, especially a prince, could only be helpful to find otherwise hidden gems in the country.

"Interested in _me_ , uh?" Jon drawled quietly as he leaned towards his brother, "My ass."

"Language," a voice said behind Jon, somewhere around his elbow, "Mother would not like to hear that word."

"Your mother doesn't need to know," Jon grumbled as he turned around to look at Bran, "Don't go ratting me out to her."

"Never," Bran said with a grin, before he shyly nodded at the women whose eyes were now set on him. "Hello."

It prompted a fresh wave of curtsies and awed _Your Highness!_ , although it sounded far less enamoured than it had with Robb and overly polite instead, due to Bran's youth. The fact that he was in his wheelchair and shadowed by his impressively tall caregiver might also have had something to do with the respectfully distant tone.

"Jon?" he asked once he'd flashed a cool smile to each of the women, "Can you help me get inside one of the alcoves over there? There's a little step I can't get over."

"Sure," the young man answered, though he cocked an eyebrow and cast a curious glance at Hodor, who certainly could deal with such a task. "Let's go."

Ignoring Robb's look of betrayal as they left him on his own without any hint of remorse on their faces, Jon grabbed the handles of their little brother's wheelchair and manoeuvred it round before pushing in the direction Bran pointed at. Hodor dutifully followed, even taking the lead at some point to show Jon exactly where the young prince wanted to go. Shadowed alcoves were carved into the west wall of the reception hall, separated from ground level by two steps, neither large nor high, and the young man imagined for a moment that many couples had enjoyed the intimacy provided by the darkness to watch the sun set beyond the horizon together.

"Since when do you need help with your wheelchair?" Jon asked as he pressed down on the handles and lifted the bottom of the chair high enough to climb over the small steps.

"I don't," Bran answered with a cheeky grin, "I just thought _you_ needed help getting away from Robb and these women. You looked so awkward!"

"I did not," Jon groaned, taking offence when both his brother and Hodor nodded with apologetic smiles, "I _didn't_!"

"It's bad to lie," Bran added, sounding like an old and wise man, though he was neither. "Besides, Sansa said you don't know how to talk to girls."

" _She_ wouldn't know," Jon answered bitterly, "she doesn't really talk to me at all."

Much like her mother. He deemed himself lucky that his other siblings and their father loved him enough to fill part of the gaping hole in his heart, the bleeding part of him that was desperate for affection. Jon knew that his father blamed himself for Catelyn's disdain towards him - but she loved her husband no matter what and wasn't it far easier to hate the innocent child who had not chosen to be born out of a mistake? A mistake that had happened twenty-four years ago no less...

"You're less awkward when you're talking to boys," Bran pointed out innocently enough, although the heavy look he sent Jon was nothing but meaningful - not to mention his wiggling eyebrows.

"I don't understand," the older man said, his stubbornness hiding the fleeting moment of panic he felt as his guts churned.

"I think you do," his little brother answered, sounding too mature for his age, and Jon swallowed a thick lump stuck in his throat, tasting of betrayal and fear.

Robb was the only one who knew Jon liked guys, as his brother was the one person he'd felt confident enough to come out to, two years ago. Had he told Bran? No, Robb was too honourable to do such a thing and he would know better than to out him like that... It only left one possibility, one scarier than the thought of Robb running his mouth: if Bran had guessed, why wouldn't other people?

"Am I that obvious?" Jon asked at last, his voice not louder than a whisper in the alcove.

"No," Bran reassured him, "You're rather hard to read."

"Then how..."

"Because you're my brother and I know you," the younger boy answered seriously, before he admitted with a slightly embarrassed smile, "and also because I might have used your laptop last week and you didn't close all your tabs..."

"Bran..." Jon sighed, and the young boy nodded, an apology written on his pouty lips.

"I know, I know..." he said, looking at his knees, "I'm not supposed to use someone else's things without asking. I just found a blog post about where and when to attend Pride, what to wear and so on. At least I didn't find porn so that's good, right?"

Jon snorted.

"Small mercies," he said with a soft laugh, although he felt rather mortified that his brother had found out about his sexuality like that, before sudden apprehension seized him. "So? Anything to say?"

He looked a bit defiantly at Bran, which was ridiculous because he was his little brother and Jon wasn't supposed to be _afraid_ of him, still he challenged him, waiting for criticism that would have sounded more like Catelyn's words than his own. Robb had sworn to protect his secret for as long as Jon would remain in the closet but he couldn't be sure that his younger brother wouldn't slip and say something incriminating, even without meaning to.

"So nothing," Bran said, shrugging, "Just wanted to show my support. Maybe you should subscribe to Grindr, make some friends..."

Jon choked on his own saliva, his relief upon knowing that his brother was supportive of him drowned by the shock of what he'd said next. He looked at Bran with wide eyes while Hodor looked mostly confused, bless him.

"It's not to make... friends," Jon stammered, "and how do you even know about Grindr in the first place? You're too young for that!"

"I'm fifteen, not stupid," Bran shot back, "I know things."

"Right," his older brother drawled, wringing his hands in embarrassment, "Well, no Grindr and no more talking about it, alright? I'll just...go."

He vaguely gestured behind himself and to the reception hall before he skipped away. He avoided Robb's corner as well as Sansa's, sat with her friends not far from their father and her mother who was holding onto Rickon's hand. The young boy looked like he was valiantly trying to pay attention to the ongoing conversation between his parents and Tywin Lannister, although his eyes were sometimes wandering around the room, shining with envy as he caught sight of his older brother navigating the crowd freely.

How ironic, Jon thought, that he would have gladly taken Rickon's place when he was his age. He would have liked nothing more than to have Catelyn hold his hand as if he was her son, to be introduced to important authorities and dignitaries because he would have a part to play for his family when he got older... Instead, his childhood had lacked motherly love and Jon still didn't feel like he truly belonged, no matter how hard he worked when he was allowed to play his role, however small, in the royal family that was only partly his.

Jon forced himself to stop that trail of thought right there, lest the evening turn even more depressing. He looked around the hall but he couldn't see Arya, who hated these events almost as much as he did, and if she'd managed to escape Jory's watchful eye, she was probably exploring the wild nature around Moat Cailin by now, instead of staying inside and smiling at important people she couldn't care less about. Perhaps he should try to find her so they could keep each other company until the end of the evening? He had no idea when they would finally call it a night, though he imagined it wouldn't last much longer since speeches had been declaimed already, toasts had been drunk and people were currently mingling together to share the latest gossips of court or plan their alliances with this or that influential family.

That was probably the part of this universe in which Jon had grown up that he hated the most, the constant defiance that existed between old, noble houses of the two kingdoms, the jealousy and resentment boiling for years, waiting for the right opportunity to surge again... One could never be sure of the intentions of the person they were talking to, as most people kept a hidden agenda, and Jon was tired of trusting no one but himself, his family and his closest friends. Looking around the room, he could tell that...

BOOM!!

Jon fell backwards when the ground suddenly shook beneath his feet and prompted cries of fright that resounded throughout the reception hall, and he barely had the time to land hard on his arse before he was twisting around already, looking with wide eyes at several people, men and women, who'd found themselves in the same predicament as him. He caught sight of his father and Rickon, clumsily helping Myrcella Lannister who'd come from the South with Tywin back to her feet, and she clung on to the boy's arm in genuine terror before her grand-father scooped her up in his arms.

Frantic, Jon glanced around but the ruined towers didn't show any sign of new destruction, even though he could have sworn that what he'd heard was the blast of an explosion. Where did it come from? What and where were the damages? Most importantly, did it have a natural cause or... Could it be that the Starks' detractors... No, Jon tried to reason himself, no, it wasn't - couldn't be - a bomb. Archaeologists had found gas underground, it was possible that the party had somehow unbalanced the fragile equilibrium maintained over the past centuries. The experts had assured them they weren't at risk, though...

"Jory, what was that?" Ned's voice asked through the room, loud and clear albeit laced with worry as he addressed the Head of the Royal Security Detail.

"I don't know, Your Majesty, my men will inv..."

Jory couldn't finish his sentence fast enough: thick smoke invaded the large room at once, coming from the corridors that linked the kitchens to the reception hall. There was a collective gasp and then...

"Evacuate!" Jory yelled, both into his earpiece and to the people in front of him, motioning them to step back, "Back of the room and down the stairs, now! Move, move! Your Majesty, Your Grace, with me!"

Jon scrambled to his feet, grabbing onto Robb's hand as he appeared by his side in a second to help him up; they ran together to follow Catelyn, Ned and Rickon, catching Sansa as they went, and they gathered at the centre of a defensive circle formed by Jory and his men.

"Where are Arya and Bran?" Cat shouted, her hand shooting for her oldest daughter's, "Ned!"

"I don't know," their father answered, pale as a sheet, fighting against Jory's strong grip on his arm as he was about to go looking for his children himself - but suddenly, his face cleared and he yelled, "Arya! Over here!"

Jon turned at the call, an immense relief flooding his heart when he saw his little sister emerge from the smoke, unharmed as far as he could tell, although she looked more scared than he remembered ever seeing her.

"They're coming!" she screamed as soon as she came up to them, her wide eyes looking at Jory, "They're coming through the kitchens!"

"Who?" their agent asked, his hand automatically closing around the Glock in its holster while he pushed on his earpiece again.

He spat a string of words too fast for Jon to follow but between the crowd's cries of fear and Arya's own frightened voice, he thought he caught the words _under attack_. Holy... This wasn't a natural explosion, was it?

"Men, men in hoods!" Arya was saying to Jory, "I didn't see their faces!"

"It's alright, Princess, stick to your father and you'll be fine," Jory said, aiming for a comforting tone, although the crease between his brows revealed his actual trouble, and then he addressed the King, "Move to the back of the room, Tom will meet you there with Beta team and lead you to the cars and Charlie. I'll gather Alpha team and we'll launch a counteroffensive."

"Bran is still out there," Ned reminded him, "I'll go with you and..."

"No," Jon interrupted him, his head finally clearing, "I know where he is. I'll go."

He didn't wait for his father or Robb to argue with him - he knew they would have but he was the one who'd brought Bran to the alcove, _he_ had isolated him from the rest of them, from safety, so he would be the one to bring him back. Jon took off at once, pushing his way through people running in the opposite direction, until someone touched his elbow.

"Your Highness!" Jory yelled, forgetting that Jon didn't bear any title in his haste to get to him, "Go back to your family! We'll handle this!"

Jon glanced at the dozen of men in suits who had gathered behind the Head of Security but he didn't have time to answer, not when several men, too fast to count, invaded the room from the kitchens corridors. They were wearing hoods, just like Arya had said, black with white bones painted on the fabric. Jory shoved him aside before he could see anything more and for the second time tonight, Jon lost his footing and fell down. He winced when Jory fired a first shot, then another, until one of the men in hoods collapsed... but another one took his place, holding something small in his hand that he quickly tossed, aiming at Jory's feet.

It didn't explode. Instead, it released a gas that prickled the eyes and had Jon's throat constricting in a second and he thought he was going to be sick - but he couldn't. He coughed, turning to lie on his stomach and rest his face on the cold stone ground of Moat Cailin, the freshness somewhat helping, but he was still coughing - he couldn't breathe. Jon clawed at his throat in panic before he realised that it would only make it worse and he tried to crawl away from the source of the gas, but two feet in leather boots soon got in his sightline. Blinded by his own tears, he could only see a dark, blurry face when he tried to look up.

"Hello, Your Highness," a voice muffled by a hood drawled, "Care for a little trip?"

Jon yelped when the man grabbed him by the hair and hoisted him to his feet. He tried to kick him, punch him, but the lack of oxygen was taking its toll on him and he only managed to scratch at the hood. The reaction was immediate: the grip on his hair loosened but one second later, he was punched and shoved to the floor again.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the pain as his head hit the ground and the taste of the blood running from his nose down to his lips.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading so far, I really hope you liked this first chapter! All thoughts and opinions are welcome, tell me if you're interested in what's coming and what you think is going to happen, I love to read theories. Until next time!


	2. The Young Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm back with the second chapter, which I hope you'll like! Thank you so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter, this was such a huge motivation to keep going! Enjoy your reading :)

  


Robb was pacing up and down the hall of the castle with his phone in his hand, waiting for it to ring and bring him good news. His nervous strides and thunderous face betrayed just how pissed he was, although he hadn't said a word since leaving Moat Cailin - since, in fact, his father had ordered Tom and Beta team to drive Robb and his siblings back to Winterfell while he and Catelyn waited with the Charlie unit for Bran, Jon and Hodor to come back under the protection of Jory and his own men.

The Crown Prince had fought his father's decision with the energy of a desperate man; he couldn't fathom the thought of leaving, abandoning his brothers and going back home without any update on the situation. Ned and Cat had remained inflexible however and Robb had quickly understood that arguing any more would be useless: his own stubbornness had to come from somewhere.

He'd held Rickon's hand during the trip back to Winterfell, comforting his crying brother as well as he could, while Arya and Sansa dozed off in each other's arms in a rare display of affection. Struggles, he guessed, brought them closer than ever. Rickon had eventually fallen asleep with his head in Robb's lap and without anything else to focus on, anxiety had overwhelmed him. He feared for his brothers, for Hodor, Jory and Alpha team who, albeit trained for and used to dire situations, were taking great risks for the sake of his family; the men in hoods which they knew nothing about; his mother and father, worried sick and waiting at Moat Cailin...

Poor Jon, Robb thought, forced to spend the ride back to Winterfell in the Queen's company. His brother avoided her like the plague whenever he could get away with it, not that Catelyn sought out his own presence either. Jon would usually get into the same car as Robb when they were on the move, which ensured he wouldn't have to suffer Cat's silent but obvious contempt: for a matter of Security of State, the Crown Prince wasn't allowed to ride in the same vehicle as the king's and queen's. How reassuring to know that if his father's car blew up, Robb would immediately receive the crown so the kingdom could carry on...

The young man abruptly stopped walking when he heard the sound of tires on the gravel of the courtyard, followed by an engine coming to a stop. He must have held his breath for a few seconds in anticipation, because then he gasped, took deep gulps of air as he staggered towards the doors leading to the courtyard and...

He wasn't fast enough to reach the doors before they were pushed open but disappointment did come quickly. The sleek SUV parked outside hadn't brought his parents and his brothers back to him; instead, holding Myrcella's hand, Tywin Lannister walked in like he owned the place and Robb, who didn't particularly like the benefactor of the Crown - even _Crowns_ , plural - on his best days, hated the poise of the man as he stared him down.

"Where are the Councillors, Your Highness?" he asked Robb, managing to make the formal address sound like an insult.

"Where the Councillors usually meet," the prince shot back between gritted teeth, "They are waiting for the King's return. My father should be arriving shortly."

Or so he hoped. He would pray every god, even those whose names had been forgotten, whom his ancestors worshipped in this very castle thousands of years ago, if it meant his parents safely came back with his brothers.

"Ah, yes, I've heard that Prince Bran was missing during the evacuation," Tywin said coolly, as if he'd read Robb's mind but couldn't share his fears about the life of the teenager, his heart of stone too cold for that. "You are lucky that the rest of your family is unhurt, though I'm sure your little brother will return to Winterfell safe and sound as well."

And _Tywin_ was lucky Robb had too much of his father's in his blood to punch an old man in the face. Furious, he watched the two Lannisters walk away, smoke practically coming out of his ears at the man's blatant disregard for Jon, whom he clearly didn't consider part of Robb's family, if his words were anything to go by. Tywin was always well-informed, so he had to know that Jon hadn't come back to Winterfell with his siblings. Saying that Bran was the only one who had yet to return was disrespectful, an unambiguous statement on Jon's very existence that he refused to even acknowledge - and it made Robb see red.

He could accept, thought with great difficulty, that his mother didn't love Jon because of his own mother, the unnamed woman who had shared their father's bed long enough for her to give birth to a little boy with dark hair. Jon wasn't responsible for any of this but Robb could understand, albeit not condone, the queen's issue with his birth. However, he couldn't tolerate that a man like Tywin Lannister, as rich and necessary to the Crown as he was, treated his brother, his _best friend_ , like that.

Jon went back for Bran, ignoring the danger like the brave idiot he'd always been, just like a few years ago when he dove into a fast-streamed river to rescue Shaggydog who couldn't swim yet, too young for his tiny paws to have any effect on the waters. Jory nearly had an aneurysm that day, as well as Ghost who would have jumped after his master if Robb hadn't held him back.

Tonight, his brother's courage had compelled him to rush back into the smoke and danger and he could be hurt right now, or worse, something Robb didn't even want to consider... while Tywin was unharmed and certain that his granddaughter was safe. He didn't have to wait with the fear that perhaps his brothers wouldn't make it back gnawing at his belly.

Robb had to fight the sudden urge to hurl his phone at the back of Tywin's head and he was glad he'd reined in the impulse when the old man turned around, his piercing eyes settling on the prince once more.

"Myrcella is tired," he declared, "I trust I can count on your hospitality for the night? I would have gone back south with her but given the situation..."

"Of course," Robb answered, only slightly mollified by the shy hint of a smile the blond girl flashed him. "Luwin will get her settled in."

On an imperceptible tilt of his head, two agents who'd been hiding in the shadows of the walls moved forward and left with Myrcella in search of the Chief of Staff, and only the slight crease between Tywin's eyebrows revealed that he hadn't noticed them before. Robb was oddly satisfied.

The older Lannister left shortly after for the Council Room where the attack on Moat Cailin would be discussed upon the King's and Jory's return but Robb resumed his pacing. His phone remained irrevocably quiet and his silent wait was nerve-racking. He was glad that he'd sent Rickon to bed and the girls had disappeared in the kitchens to prepare tea, so they couldn't see him slowly give in to panic. The plan was to regroup in the kitchens after Bran's and Jon's return and bask into one another's presence, make sure each of them was all right, while their parents attended the urgent meeting with the Councillors. Robb couldn't wait to hug them both, feel them against his chest alive and well, and nothing else would matter. He didn't, couldn't care about the attackers right now, he had to know that his siblings were coming home.

He nearly cried in relief when he heard three or four cars, perhaps more but definitively enough to bring back his parents, his brothers and their security detail, stop in the courtyard, and he ran to the doors. He already knew that Jon was going to laugh at his red eyes but he didn't care that as the future king, he was supposed to keep his emotions in check - not when his family was threatened.

He let out a small cry of victory when he saw the easily recognisable shape of Hodor carry Bran in his arms to get him out of the car, his wheelchair nowhere in sight. Not surprising, Robb realised as he remembered the amount of stairs in the emergency exit their security detail had cleared weeks ago, in the eventuality of an unfortunate situation unfolding at Moat Cailin. Thank Jory for his paranoia - or clairvoyance, as he preferred to call it.

"Bran!" he exclaimed, running to his brother.

He had to wait for Hodor to sit the teen down on the stairs of the perron to engulf him in a tight hug, prompting Bran's protestations even though his voice was muffled into Robb's shirt. He smelled of smoke but seemed fine in spite of his cheeks that were marred with dust or ashes, Robb couldn't be sure, and he cupped his face in his hands to observe him better. His eyes were focused but sad, though he didn't look like he'd been overly traumatised by the experience.

"Are you alright?" he asked at last.

"Yech, mum," he said while rolling his eyes, his cheeks squished by his big brother's hands, "Hodor frotected me."

"Good," Robb breathed out, his shoulders sagging in relief, before he turned around.

His mother looked exhausted, her red hair falling freely onto her shoulders when they'd been styled up earlier that evening, but his father... Ned looked completely broken, his expression miserable and an infinite despair in his eyes. His breath hitching, Robb glanced around wildly, a sudden, terrible fear turning the blood in his veins to ice, slowing his heart down, and then he set his eyes back onto his father's sorrowful features. His hold around Bran tightened protectively.

"Where is Jon?" he asked in a whisper, quiet, afraid to speak too loudly and make it, whatever _it_ was, real, but when neither his mother nor his father answered, he told Bran, "He went looking for you. He found you, right? He..."

Bran blinked, his eyes filling with tears, and Robb felt his own heart crumple in his chest. No...

"I'm afraid your half-brother was taken, Your Highness," a grim voice said.

"W... What do you mean, _taken_?" Robb asked as he turned around, feeling like a little kid instead of a twenty-four-year-old prince.

"Abducted," Jory added softly at the sight of the young man kneeling next to his little brother, lost, his face an open book that spoke of heartbreak. "We were attacked with tear gas and for a short time, I... I couldn't see him anymore. When I came to, he was being carried away by one of our assailants... Unconscious, I think. I went in pursuit with my agents who were still standing but they lost us in the kitchens: there was a tunnel... and they blew up the entrance behind them."

"What tunnel?" Robb asked, his breathing too quick, his hands shaking, "Did you know about it? Who else knew? Do we know who the men with the hoods are? Jory..."

"Calm down, Robb," Ned interfered, resting one comforting hand on his eldest's shoulder - but the young man felt it tremble all the same.

He clutched his father's arm with one hand, the other still tight around Bran's shoulders. He tried to blink away the tears pooling in his blue eyes as horrible guilt filled his heart: he should have gone with Jon. He should have helped him. Perhaps if he'd stood by his brother's side, he would still be there with them...

"Why?" he croaked out, "Why did they take him?"

"I don't know," Ned whispered, "I don't know, Robb..."

It was horrible to think that way but Jon wasn't the right child to go for in order to hit the royal family hard. Everyone called him the bastard son and Jon... Jon didn't really matter in the eyes of the people so why would he, to the attackers? What did they want from him?

"We'll get him back," his father promised with a kiss to his forehead, "We'll get your brother back home. One step at a time, Robb. Let's get inside first, then I want you with me in the Council Room."

The Crown Prince looked up in surprise and slowly detached himself from Bran, allowing Hodor to carry him inside while they all followed. Robb had only attended the Council meetings a few times in the past years, since he wasn't king... yet. The fact that his father chose this very night to include him was worrying and the words that came out of the King's mouth next only strengthened Robb's feeling of impending doom:

"Activate Protocol Direwolf," Ned told Jory.

To his credit, the Head of Security didn't even blink but Robb did gasp in shock. Jory turned to his men at once, gesturing at some of them and muttering orders as he dispatched them here and there in smaller teams, one of which gathered close around the Crown Prince. Shit, his father was serious...

"Protocol Direwolf?" Robb echoed faintly, prompting his parents to look at him, "Father! I'm not ready for this, you can't..."

"I can and I will," Ned shot back sternly and looked him in the eyes, squeezing his shoulder as he added on a softer tone, "Listen to me, Robb. They came for our family, we don't know what they want or even who they are. We don't have a choice. We must be ready."

"You were born for this," Catelyn told him, aiming for reassurance even though her eyes betrayed her sadness at the sight of her firstborn son, the one who would forever remain her little boy, being coaxed into becoming an adult with responsibilities too heavy for his young head. "You can do this."

Robb didn't answer. The last time Protocol Direwolf was activated, he wasn't even born yet and his father, freshly married to his mother, had gone to war against the Targaryens. What would it be this time? It wasn't a coincidence that Jon had been taken on the very day they were celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Rebellion.

Catelyn suddenly hugged him tight, her grip almost painful as her fingers tangled in his curls, and though there was no hint of wetness in her eyes, she sniffled when she stepped back.

"Go with your father," she whispered, "I'll tell the girls and Rickon about Jon and... Protocol Direwolf."

"Arya won't like it," Robb muttered in a weak attempt at humour, trying to be as brave as his mother and father who didn't allow themselves to show fear or sadness, not now, not in public.

"What's there not to like in staying in Winterfell under maximal protection, without being allowed outside?" Cat chuckled, "Of course she'll hate it. It's temporary though... until the threat has been properly assessed and reacted to. Until your brother is found."

At these words, Robb felt a sudden surge of affection for his mother. She might not get on with Jon and hate everything he represented but she was not heartless; she understood the pain her husband and children were going through. Robb had not just been deprived of his brother but of his best friend too, his partner in crime, the one he could share everything with and vice-versa.

With one last tender caress of her fingers on his cheek, the Queen strode through the hallway and disappeared around a corner, shouldering the heavy task to announce the bad news to Arya and Sansa. Perhaps his own fate was better.

"What will you do?" Robb asked his father as they walked to the Council Room, followed by more guards than usual.

" _We_ ," Ned answered firmly, "are going to do everything we can."

The intonation in his father's voice made Robb stand a little straighter and square his shoulders as determination slowly replaced his doubts. His father was right, he couldn't help his brother if he didn't step up at some point. Attending the meeting was the one chance he got to know everything about Jon's kidnapping, about the tunnel and the explosions... and the consequences. The prince's boyish features hardened as he vowed in silence to bring his brother back home, no matter the cost.

  


  


_Everything hurts_ was the first slow thought that came to Jon's mind. He felt groggy, his body aching all over, although his nose and the back of his head especially were pulsing with pain. A groan passed his dry lips when he tried to move and grasped that he wasn't standing but lying down on a surface that was too hard to be his bed and... Where was he? Moat Cailin? He remembered an explosion and smoke, and then...

Jon's eyelids fluttered open - and he promptly panicked when he saw nothing but darkness, as if he hadn't even opened his eyes at all, before he completely freaked out when he tried to take off whatever was covering his head and realised that his hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles together. Leather boots, he suddenly recalled, and a taunting voice above him... Shit.

He tried to call for help but his throat was so dry that he barely let out a whine and he tasted blood on his lips when he licked them. Ignoring the pain in his body, Jon rolled on the floor, trying to find a wall, something solid to lean on and be sure he wouldn't be attacked from behind. When he heard a chuckle and the sound of someone scraping a chair back to stand up, he froze, keeping his eyes wide open in a desperate attempt to spot a silhouette moving through the darkness.

"So you're awake," a voice said somewhere on his right, making him twist his body in that direction.

It was the voice of a man, rough and amused, a voice Jon had never heard before. Not the man in leather boots, then. Footsteps grew louder as the man came closer and Jon wriggled to get back, trying to put distance between him and this stranger, who laughed again.

"Quit squirming, boy!"

To Jon's utmost horror, the man sounded way too close.

"Don't touch me!" he rasped out in warning, bending his bound legs against his chest, ready to kick with both feet whoever would try to harm him.

"Relax, boy," the man chuckled, "I'm just going to take that hood off, okay? Sit up."

Jon didn't answer, surprised by the suggestion, but he did comply before he stopped moving, his heart beating fast as he waited to see if the words were but a trap. Soon, however, he felt a presence next to him and then, two large hands were tugging at the edge of the hood around his neck and lifting the fabric, careless fingers catching on his hair.

The young man blinked at the sudden bright light in his face, grunting in frustration when he tried to protect his eyes with one of his hands only to remember that they were still bound behind his back. He looked down, feeling burning tears catch in his lashes. It took some time but when Jon got used to the light, he glanced up to stare at the man in front of him.

Clear blue eyes were staring right back, watching him in wonder. Jon allowed himself two seconds of sullen glaring and then, he surged forward with a snarl.

"Ow!" the man yelled when their foreheads brutally connected while Jon hissed, seeing stars, and then whole constellations when the guy pushed him back and he toppled over.

Clear laughter rose a bit farther away and Jon realised in horror that he was not alone with the blue-eyed man; shaking his head carefully, trying to get his bearings back, he finally looked at his surroundings.

Jon was lying at the back of a room that was neither large nor much furnished: one table and a few chairs, plus a cupboard above a sink, no more. Perched on one of the seats, a grin on her face, a red-haired woman with knives hanging from her belt was looking at him as if he was the funniest person she'd seen in a long time, while the blue-eyed man slowly stood up and...

Crap, Jon thought, the man was a giant. He was so dead. The guy towered over him, a murderous expression on his face as he rubbed the bruise that was already blooming right above his nose. Jon's own forehead must have turned purple already. He briefly wondered if the man and the woman were related, as their hair were equally red, before he decided that it didn't matter: family or not, they were certainly going to hurt him regardless.

To his surprise, the girl crouched in front of him.

"You're a feisty one," she told Jon, still grinning, while her friend snorted, "I like that."

The young man glared at her, determined not to speak one word. He didn't know why he was there, what they wanted from him or what they would do to him, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction to beg for his life. He smirked when her grin slipped, although she didn't seem to mind his attitude. Then what was the problem?

"Tormund," she said, catching the man's attention, so it must have been his name, "Look at him."

Tormund's eyebrows arched up but he did as he was told and Jon fidgeted under the scrutiny of his gaze, clumsily sitting up so that he didn't feel so vulnerable, sprawled on the floor as he was.

"Fucking hell," the redhead finally swore, "Get Mance... and Bones. What an idiot!"

The woman left, opening and closing the door of the room too fast for Jon to see anything beyond the panel, and he found himself alone with Tormund, who was now watching him with a frown. Curiosity was devouring him but Jon forced himself to remain silent. They obviously had a problem with him, which could be either a good or a very, very bad thing and he didn't want to tip the balance on the wrong side by making a snide comment... yet. Jon knew himself, he would not resist for long. Robb always told him he didn't know when to shut up.

Shit, Robb! Was he alright? Was Jon the only one they'd taken? What about Bran? He had gone back for him, to bring him back to their father, but what if he had been too late and these people had already gotten their hands on him? He was about to break his silence, his family more important than the rest, but footfalls coming their way had him turn his head to the door before he could speak.

Jon froze when the red-haired woman came back, followed by two other men, and he felt his stomach churn when he realised how badly outnumbered he was - maybe he could fight off one or two people but four? No way.

"Ygritte says we have a problem," one of the men addressed Tormund, his dark hair combed backwards, "What's wrong?"

"Ask Bones," Tormund growled, before he pointed at Jon, "and take a good look at him. Careful, though. He's tiny but he's fiery."

"What's that supposed to mean, _ask Bones_?" the last man, who must have been Bones himself, drawled - and Jon suddenly recognised the leather boots he was wearing, not to mention the black hood with painted white bones slipped in his belt.

"Look at the boy," Ygritte repeated, crossing her arms against her chest, "Does he look like the Young Wolf to you?"

Jon's heart stopped. _The Young Wolf_. No, this couldn't be... They were after Robb? And they'd taken him instead? Then Robb could still be in danger, he had to warn him somehow, he had to escape this room, go back to Winterfell or get a phone, anything, but they had to know!

"You got into a nest of white swans," Tormund told Bones, "and you managed to bring back the only little crow in the place."

"The bastard?" Bones realised that he'd fucked up at last, glancing at Jon in horror, "But I... I heard them! The bodyguard called him _Your Highness_ , he's... he's got the curls!"

Jon couldn't help himself. He started to laugh, bringing everyone's attention back on him, sounding nearly hysterical at the thought that his hair had saved Robb's life. The others glanced at one another helplessly and surely they believed that he was crazy, laughing when he didn't know what they would do to him, especially now that he was completely useless to them... Whatever their plans had been for Robb, he doubted he could play the same role as his brother would have. He was no one.

"So sorry I'm not the one you expected," Jon suddenly snarled, "but good. My brother must be back in Winterfell by now and then, good luck to get him. You're so fucked."

And then, because he really had no sense of self-preservation, he looked at Bones.

"You had one job," he told him with a grin, "How stupid can you be, to get the wrong prisoner?"

He should have expected the punch, really, and he yelped in pain. Bones grabbed him by the collar of his dress shirt, once white but now stained with spots and streaks of blood, but before he could land a second blow, the man was slammed into the nearest wall and Jon collapsed to the floor. Blinking, the young man caught sight of Tormund, his hand around Bones' throat and keeping him pressed again the wall. His feet weren't touching the ground.

"You little cunt," he growled, "He's not the one who should bear the consequences of your dumb mistake!"

"Enough!"

At the sharp command, Tormund let go and Bones wheezed on the floor. Looking chastised but unrepentant, the redhead turned to the man who'd mostly kept quiet until then, observing, thinking, and Jon immediately understood that he was the boss. Mance, if he recalled, and the name sounded familiar, though he couldn't remember why. The man looked calm, despite the wrinkle of annoyance between his two eyebrows, and he jerked his head toward the door.

"Out," he simply said, which had Ygritte and the two men leave the room at once.

Mance stared at Jon in silence. The young man would have given anything to be a mind reader right then, to listen in to the thoughts running into Mance's head, to prepare himself to whatever would come next. When the man turned around, Jon couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"Are you going to kill me?" he shouted right before Mance could open the door, his heart echoing against his ribcage.

"We'll see," he said softly.

"That's not an answer!" Jon yelled.

It was too late though, Mance was already outside. He heard a key turn into the lock, the sounds of footsteps walking away, and then nothing. Taking a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale, Jon tried to calm down and think. He had to get away, or else...

Or else what? Mance's answer was nothing but vague. Would he kill him? Well, Jon didn't really see any other solution to their predicament: they couldn't let him walk away, he'd seen their faces... and he was not the right person to put pressure on the Crown, if that was even their plan. So who would do it? Ygritte with her knives or Tormund with his bare hands?

Jon gingerly rested his back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. Somehow, the prospect of dying wasn't as terrifying as it should have been. Oh, he was scared, who wouldn't be, but... Better him than Robb. At least, Catelyn would never say that he was useless and a burden to her family again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm sure you must have questions about Protocol Direwolf and such, fear not, answers will come. Until next time!


	3. The Free Folk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As you may (or may not) have noticed, I decided to give titles to the chapters. I haven't done this in years, we'll see if I manage to keep it up until the very last one! I hope you'll enjoy your reading :)

  


Jon didn't realise that he'd fallen asleep until a door opened and slammed into the opposite wall with a loud bang. He startled awake at the noise and, disoriented, he blinked a few times and felt his breath itch in his throat when he found himself not at home but on the floor of a room he was unfamiliar with - until it all came back: not only was he prisoner to people he knew nothing about except that they'd wanted to capture Robb, but he'd also managed to smash his head into a big man's forehead and he'd laughed at another one before calling him an idiot. If he considered all of that, Jon was surprised that he was still alive... So far.

When his gaze fell upon a redhead entering the room with a tray in her hands, Jon refused to meet her from his vulnerable position on the floor and he scrambled to his feet - before his bound ankles chose a painful way to remind him that he couldn't really move. With a yelp, Jon suddenly lost his balance and hit his shoulder against the wall behind him, hard, unable to even outstretch his hands to soften the impact for they, too, were tied together. Great.

"This is exactly why I told them it was a bad idea to keep you tied up, no matter how sexy it looks on you," Ygritte said with a roll of her eyes, setting the tray down onto the table that stood in the middle of the room. "Don't move."

Jon did exactly the opposite when she pulled a knife out of her belt, recoiling on instinct, and she smiled at him. It looked far from appeasing, nearly feral, and he could totally imagine her licking the blade, still dripping with his blood.

"Don't be silly," she said as she walked up to him and ignored his wild eyes, crouching next to him. "You're probably prettier in one piece anyway."

To his deep astonishment, she cut through the rope that kept his feet tied, before she did the same with his hands. One second later, her knife was at his throat.

"I'm going to stand up," she growled in warning, "Don't try to put up the shit you did with Tormund. You'll be bleeding out on the floor before you can even touch me."

Strangely, Jon didn't doubt for a second that she would act on that threat if she thought that he wasn't complying willingly enough so he nodded, slow and mindful of the blade that felt cold against his skin.

"Good," she said.

She straightened, like she'd announced, and she took a few steps back before she slipped her knife back into her belt - Jon didn't even attempt to hold back a relieved sigh, she would have seen right through him.

"Coffee?" Ygritte asked as if nothing had happened, as if they had been best friends since forever, and she motioned for him to sit on one of the chairs around the table. "Black? Milk, sugar?"

Jon didn't answer at first, sure that she was pulling his leg. He slowly stood up, balancing himself on the wall so he wouldn't trip all over his numb feet and he gently rubbed his wrists, trying to get the blood running through his veins again. Only then did he risk taking a clumsy step toward the table and a glance at the tray.

"N... nothing, thank you," Jon eventually stammered, surprised to see, indeed, a coffee pot and two plastic cups ready to be filled, not to mention a chocolate muffin and a few slices of bread next to a marmalade jar - with a spoon to spread it across the bread but no knife, of course.

"So polite," Ygritte sighed, "You're a prince alright."

"I'm not a prince," Jon argued, carefully sitting down and folding his hands onto his lap like a little boy scared of getting his fingers slapped if he reached out for sweets uninvited.

He felt a bit like this to be honest, a child taken out of his usual surroundings and not knowing the rules, with no idea what to do in order not to get punished or, in his case, not have his throat cut open. He was starving but he didn't dare help himself to anything that was on that tray. Was it a trap? He wasn't in a goddamn five-star hotel...

"Bastard prince," Ygritte amended, "Still polite."

Jon didn't point out that in spite of his father being king, he wasn't considered a prince. He didn't want to anger the ginger woman too much, not when she had knives and all he could count on to defend himself was a teaspoon. Perhaps the tray itself, if he was quick enough to grab it and throw everything that was on it to the floor. No, the noise would draw the attention...

Ygritte caught him looking of course, although she couldn't guess what thoughts were running through his mind.

"Don't get your hopes up," she said, and Jon glanced at her in concern, before he relaxed imperceptibly at her next words, "The muffin is for me."

She took it between her fingertips and bit into it while she stood up with one of the empty cups, heading for the sink to fill the mug with tap water. Jon blinked when she put it down in front of him.

"Eat and drink," she enjoined him, licking her fingertips clean of chocolate. "It's breakfast time."

Jon glanced at his bare wrist. He had chosen not to wear his watch for the ceremony at Moat Cailin, he recalled, because it wouldn't have been courteous to check the time during an official event like the anniversary of the Rebellion. As for his phone, Bones had probably chucked it away before they arrived here, so Jon could not be tracked down... Even he wouldn't have been stupid enough to keep it where his prisoner was locked up.

"What time is it?" he asked, before he wrapped his fingers around the mug of water.

"Nearly eight in the morning," Ygritte answered without hesitation, so he guessed he was allowed to know that at least.

"And who are you guys?" he asked again, pushing his luck.

"Eat, Jon Snow," the redhead told him with a smirk, refusing to play his game. "Mance will be here soon, he'll explain... Maybe."

Jon snorted.

"Great," he grumbled, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

When Ygritte arched an unimpressed brow, Jon ignored her and finally drank some water from his cup. It was cold and rolled down his throat in long, satisfying gulps, wetting his lips and taking away some of the dry blood he could still feel across his mouth. He grimaced at the metallic taste on his tongue and told himself he'd need to wash up as much as he could to the sink behind him; he felt dirty, not only because of the blood and the smoke, but to think that Bones had grabbed him, tied him up, patted him down to get his phone... He felt his skin crawl.

Eventually, Jon helped himself to some bread and marmalade, under Ygritte's sharp gaze. He guessed he should be lucky they were feeding him at all... unless they'd poisoned his food? No, Ygritte could have slit his throat in a heartbeat, it would have been easier and less time-consuming than coax him into eating something. He probably shouldn't trust his captors but he was hungry and besides, he needed his strength: if they didn't kill him for now and if no one from Winterfell came for him, then he would have to fight his way out. Jon didn't know how many more people he would find beyond that door besides Ygritte and the three men he'd seen before, so... Yeah, he really needed to eat if he wanted to get a few good punches in.

  


  


By the time Robb left the Council Room with his security detail, his phone showed alarming digits - 08:27 - and he heard his bones crack when he turned his head left and right, trying to work out the kinks in his stiff neck. The meeting with the Councillors - Hand of the King, police Commander, Head of Secret Services and whatnot - had lasted for more than seven hours, without any break, not even a short one... although Luwin had been thoughtful and kind enough to bring them refreshments and sandwiches around four in the morning.

No wonder it had gotten a bit heated in there, Robb thought bitterly, recalling the way he'd almost yelled at Roose Bolton, his father's hand on his knee under the table the only reminder that he had to remain calm and composed, especially now that Protocol Direwolf had been activated and that he was shouldering more responsibilities. He couldn't afford to snap at anyone.

He'd controlled himself but now that he was outside and without his father to rein in his impulses, Robb felt like punching something, possibly someone. Furious at the whole world and all the possible deities that had allowed abject people to capture his brother, he also felt terribly dejected and lonely. If Jon had been there, he would have shared his doubts about his role in Protocol Direwolf with him and he knew that Jon would have found the right words to appease him.

Robb shook his head. There he was, complaining about feeling alone, when his brother was detained somewhere, truly on his own and probably scared, beaten up - or worse - and with little chance to be rescued over the next hour. On that specific matter, the Council had been useless: they didn't even know who was behind the kidnapping yet, since no one had claimed responsibility for it so far, neither Ned's and Robert's notorious enemies inside the two kingdoms nor outside, where it was said that the remaining family members of the Targaryens had been licking their wounds for the past twenty years or so. What would the Targaryens want with Jon anyway? Why would anyone want to hurt him?

Gritting his teeth, Robb took a sudden turn to the left - and promptly crashed into his sister, who seemed to have tried to blend in with the wall.

"Arya!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

She shushed him at once and then, the answer became obvious. Barefooted so she wouldn't make a sound while navigating the corridors, hiding not far away from the Council Room, she'd obviously given the slip to her bodyguards for one purpose only.

"Were you eavesdropping?" he asked.

His tone betrayed offended bafflement but his features softened at the sight of tear tracks that had dried on her cheeks. She and Jon were close and Robb knew, had he not been allowed into the Council Room alongside their father, that he would have done the same. When she realised that he wasn't mad at her, Arya nodded.

"Couldn't hear much, though," she whispered.

Truth to be told, there hadn't been much to hear. The first hour of the meeting had happened in utter chaos, which had turned into stunned silence when Ned announced that Protocol Direwolf had been activated. All eyes had turned to Robb, some shining with pride, others with hesitation due to his young age and a few with disagreement, but everyone understood how serious the situation was at last. Then, it had been calmer... but far from satisfying or helpful, since they needed to know who had abducted Jon before they could decide on the next course of action.

"Come with me," Robb told his sister on a quiet tone. "I'll tell you what I can."

Together, they walked through the castle until they reached a stairway that went down into the depths of Winterfell, to the crypts where their ancestors had been laid to rest for thousands of years. On a word from Robb, the agents who'd shadowed them since the Council Room didn't follow any farther and allowed the prince and the princess to go on their own. The sound of their footfalls echoed against the walls of the crypts and their steps turned on automatic, dim lights that cast shadows all around them.

Jon had never felt comfortable down there, Robb remembered, feeling like his chest was crushed under a weight too heavy to bear at the thought. His brother had always imagined that all the dead were judging him for not belonging to their family, not really... The crypts were the best place to talk without being heard however and Robb didn't particularly want his parents to find out that he'd told Arya what had come up during the Council.

"How are you dealing with all this?" Robb asked quietly after they sat at the foot of their aunt Lyanna's statue side by side, their arms brushing, "I thought I could see you all earlier and we'd have time to talk but..."

"Mum told us about Protocol Direwolf," Arya sighed, leaning a bit more against the stone, "so we didn't wait up for you. I went to bed but... I couldn't sleep. Figured it wouldn't hurt to try to catch some information."

Robb hummed. He didn't point out that she hadn't answered his question, which was telling enough in itself: Arya wasn't dealing well with Jon's disappearance, at all, but she wouldn't say it aloud.

"What about Sansa and the boys?" he asked then, choosing not to make her uncomfortable by demanding an actual answer and switching topics instead.

"I think Rickon is still asleep... Bran didn't look too good last night, he blames himself for what happened. He thinks that if Jon hadn't gone back for him, he..."

Robb sighed, missing Arya's next few words. The Starks had a knack for feeling guilty about things that they weren't actually responsible for, himself included: hadn't he wished, a few hours ago, that he'd stayed by Jon's side to help him, to protect him? He couldn't have known that his brother was a target, just like Bran couldn't imagine, when he'd asked for Jon's help getting to the alcove, that his big brother would rush headfirst into trouble, thinking that he was in danger.

"Sansa is in her bedroom with Lady," Arya was saying when Robb tuned in again, "she doesn't want to let her out of her sight. She's too scared."

"And you aren't?"

"No," Arya's determination resounded in her words, "I'll punch anyone who tries anything funny."

Well, she was his sister alright. Even her next question echoed the fears kindled in Robb's heart.

"Do you think they'll hurt him?" she asked on a soft, almost frightened tone, as if she didn't want to hear the answer - but she needed to, she had to be prepared...

"I don't know," the Crown Prince admitted. "We have no idea why he was taken, so no idea what the consequences could be. I don't think..."

His voice cracked. Arya grabbed his hand in silence, supporting him as much as she was drawing strength from their entwined fingers.

"I don't think they'll kill him," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "If that was their plan all along, they would have done it at Moat Cailin. Hurt him, though... Maybe. I hope not."

Robb closed his eyes. He could see Jon's face in his mind, clear as if he'd stood right in front of him, but he could also distinctly picture his brother bloodied and whimpering in pain or worse, lying lifeless, abandoned in a ditch. Why Jon, though? His only mistake, according to some conservative people Robb refused to be associated with, was that he was born at all...

"So what's the plan?" Arya asked him, thankfully pulling him out of his own mind, "How do we take him back?"

Anger rose inside him again at her question and he suddenly let go of his sister's hand, standing up to pace the dark corridor under the gaze of his grandparents. He couldn't believe the decisions that had been made during the Council, he hated them, and though he knew some were inevitable, he couldn't accept that there was nothing more he could do.

"We wait," he growled. "Can you believe it? Jon is missing and we are supposed to _wait_."

Furious at his own powerlessness, he told his sister about how they had to give the experts time to check the stability of Moat Cailin now that several explosions had possibly damaged the ruins, how they wouldn't get to explore the tunnel before they got an all-clear... Bolton had already gotten in touch with his men into the Police Forces to gather up the archaeologists who had studied Moat Cailin and owned plans of the site. He was hoping the tunnel used by Jon's abductors to escape showed up on these, as well as the surface exit of that passage. If and only if it did, then perhaps the other side of the tunnel would provide them with enough evidence to go on, tire marks to hint at the way they went or the kind of car they should be looking for...

Robb hoped, with all his heart, that luck would be on their side this time. If they had even a slight idea of the city where Jon had been taken to, perhaps CCTV would have caught something useful for them - and then, Robb would lead the rescue mission himself if he had to.

He might as well, to be honest. Bolton didn't seem to care much for Jon, no, he was much busier blaming Jory for the ill-defended accesses to Moat Cailin and the disaster that had resulted from it. He'd even hidden a few snide remarks in his speech about the plans - _surely_ Jory had checked them when he'd studied the layout of the ruined towers, to ensure the safety of the royal family. Had he not spotted a tunnel? Where were his men, when His Majesty's son was taken away?

Robb firmly believed that Jory had done all he could to protect them, to get Jon back, and he didn't blame him for anything - the real culprits were those who'd taken his brother away from his family. Jory had even killed one of the men in hoods! Thanks to him, the Police and Secret Services were trying to identify that man to see if they could link him to any known criminal organisation, so Bolton had no right to say that Jory had lacked in vigilance and appropriate reactions. Judging by the Head of Security's pale face during the Council though, he did feel responsible for Jon's fate... Robb would speak to his father about that, he couldn't allow Jory's guilt to reach new heights and undermine his work.

"What about Secret Services?" Arya asked once her brother was done rambling about Bolton and the stick up his ass, "Didn't they know about a threat or something?"

"Baelish said he had no previous knowledge that Jon could be a target," Robb answered, sounding defeated, "but he'll get in touch with Varys, in the South. Crosscheck their intel."

"I don't like Baelish," Arya declared, her brows furrowing, "and I don't trust him."

"Mother is the only one who likes him a little," Robb chuckled sombrely, "but I don't reckon she trusts him much either."

"Do you think..." Arya started, looking uncertain, "Don't you think he could have something to do with Jon's abduction?"

Robb stared at her in shock, not so much at the thought that the Head of the Secret Services could betray the Starks but rather at her phrasing. Did she know something that he didn't? Glancing left and right in worry, the prince made sure that no one had come looking for them before he turned to his sister.

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure," Arya answered carefully, "but... If you wanted the kingdom to suffer, would you go after Jon?"

Robb didn't say anything, aware that his thoughts had followed the same path the previous night, when he'd just learned that his brother was missing. While he hadn't dared to draw any conclusion, his sister didn't seem to care, even though she wasn't openly accusing anyone... yet.

"It's something personal," she soldiered on, "It has to be. Jon doesn't have any influence on the Court which is to say, no influence at all. Whoever did this wanted our family to suffer, not the country."

"Why Baelish, though?" Robb asked, narrowing his eyes in his concentration. "He's the Head of the Secret Services, he could think of a million ways to hurt our family without staging a kidnapping. It doesn't make sense, Arya!"

"Only if you consider who got kidnapped," she shot back. "Think, Robb! Who doesn't like Jon, in our family?"

"Mother," he answered at once, although he wasn't sure to understand where she was going with this: surely she didn't think that their mother was behind Jon's disappearance, did she? "Mother would never..."

"She wouldn't," Arya agreed, to Robb's relief. "Tell me, who has been in love with our mum since forever?"

"Baelish," Robb whispered in sudden realisation.

"Yes. I'm not saying he did this, just that... he could benefit from it. You said it yourself, he's Secret Services, he should have known that something was going on!"

Robb shook his head, too tired to follow her reasoning any longer, afraid to jump to conclusions when perhaps Baelish's informants had merely failed to spot the one real threat in the hundreds they analysed every day.

"Let's keep this under wraps for now," he told Arya, gesturing her to follow him back to the world of the living. "I'll investigate."

"You have enough work to do as it is," Arya objected while she stood up, "now that Protocol Direwolf has been activated. I'll take care of this, Robb. Baelish doesn't know me as well as you, he'll underestimate me."

"Don't forget that this is only hypothetical," Robb warned her quietly as they left the crypts, for she seemed already at war with the man, "and if you want to bring this matter to father, half proofs won't be enough."

Behind them, Lyanna's stony face was smiling sadly at their retreating backs.

  


  


Jon groaned in frustration when his exploration of the room where he was locked up didn't reveal anything useful. Ygritte had made sure to take the breakfast tray back with her when she'd left and no knife had magically turned up into the cupboard above the sink, that was totally empty. In short, Jon had nothing but his fists to fight, which meant that his odds were far from good... Facing a giant man like Tormund, what were his chances?

Doomed to wait until Mance deigned come to him and with nothing else to do, Jon tried to think. Bones, Tormund, Ygritte... He had never seen any of them before and their names didn't ring any bells, unlike their leader's. He knew he'd heard that name at Winterfell and if only he could remember when, in which context, perhaps it would give him valuable information about his captors, their purpose, maybe even their location.

Mance was his only pointer, the only lead he could focus on. He hadn't seen any tattoo, any jewel of a specific shape that could betray the organisation he and the others belonged to... except for Bones' hood, although Jon believed the white bones on the fabric were a bad pun relating to his name rather than the symbol of some criminal ring. Wait.

The men who were following him... They all wore hoods, in an understandable wish to keep their identity secret, but the same bones had been painted on all of them, not only on Bones'. Could it be that he was the leader of a smaller faction of people? People who had nothing to do with Ygritte and Tormund, whom he hadn't seen carrying hoods nor bones of any kind?

Shit. If he was right, then Jon knew who Mance was. His father had mentioned him once, the only man who'd managed to unite the descendants of the northern tribes who had fought the Targaryens centuries ago, antimonarchists, people who despised Ned and Robert alike, saw them as despots. No wonder they had aimed for Robb, Ned's firstborn son and heir to the throne...

Jon's head snapped to the door when he heard a key jiggle outside the room and he quickly sat down on one of the chairs around the table, facing the door and joining his hands in front of him in an attempt to look relaxed and in control of the situation. When the door opened, Jon carefully followed the movements of the three people who entered, studying these faces he would do well to get used to if he was supposed to stay there for a little while... Bones wasn't among them.

They weren't armed - or at least, the knives were still tucked into Ygritte's belt and not in her hands - and they didn't look like they were about to kill him. Jon tried not to show any hint of relief, his shoulders squared and tense, his eyes defiant. He waited until Tormund closed the door to speak, trying to gain the upper hand on the rebels by surprising them.

"Mance Rayder," he said on a quiet but clear tone. "I know who you are."

Ygritte glanced at her leader, confusion at Jon's knowledge flashing across her features so quickly that the young man would have missed it if he hadn't been so focused on her and the two men's reactions. Tormund's blue eyes narrowed and his fists tightened, while Mance merely smiled.

"I see that your father has taught you well," he commented with an appreciative nod, "and you're a smart boy. That's good. So you know about the Free Folk, don't you?"

Jon nodded.

"A group of anarchists and rebels, born of the first tribes that inhabited the North before the Targaryens conquered it," he summed up the bloody history of the organisation. "Responsible for many attempts of assassination and coups, antimonarchists who would stop at nothing to get rid of the King in the North - and many kings before."

"Funny," Tormund drawled, "how your side of history always fails to mention your own shameful actions. Calling us wildlings, denying our humanity, massacring us. You're surprised we retaliate?"

"My father never did anything wrong to you!" he exclaimed, slamming his palms on the table in anger.

"Should we be grateful for not being hunted down anymore?" Mance interfered calmly. "After centuries of persecution, should we thank the mighty and benevolent Eddard Stark, for allowing our women and children to live?"

"It's the bare minimum, Little Crow," Tormund growled.

Momentarily taken aback by the nickname he hadn't expected to stick, Jon stammered the weakest and least appropriate counterattack he could think of:

"You... you are rebels."

"You were celebrating the anniversary of the _Rebellion_ yesterday," Ygritte snorted, "He was a rebel twenty years ago and now, your daddy's a king. Stop being a hypocrite."

She had a point, he thought for a fleeting moment. History never listened to the side of the losers and Ned's and Robert's uprising against the Mad King, their _rightful_ king, had turned into the myth of two heroes defending the people, not that of traitors. What about the wildlings though, who had always been forced to defend their own?

"Would you rather have Aerys Targaryen still sitting on the Iron Throne?" Jon asked. "He was a madman, threatening to drop a nuclear bomb on his own kingdom! If it weren't for the Rebellion and Jaime Lannister..."

"Your father may not be a tyrant," Mance interrupted him, "he's still a king we didn't choose. Twenty-five years ago, the Rebellion that put an end to the Targaryens and then, the division of the kingdom gave Ned Stark the perfect opportunity to finally listen to us, give us back the lands that had been stolen from us, let us rule ourselves - or let the people choose their ruler. This could have been a democracy! Instead, we were ignored and one king was replaced with two. So we had to find a way to be heard, somehow."

Yes, Jon thought with a derogatory chuckle, he could agree that kidnapping the Crown Prince was the best solution to finally be noticed and listened to. Too bad they'd gotten the wrong one, though.

"So what now?" he slowly enquired. "Do you slaughter me in memory of your ancestors?"

"You're so dramatic," Ygritte laughed, "Nah, we're not killing you. As you said, you're not a prince."

Jon's heart skipped a beat or two at her words. Did it mean that they would have killed Robb, if the attack on Moat Cailin had unfolded according to plan? His brother was a good person! Sure, he was royalty, but was that enough reason to sentence him to death? Apparently, it was for the Free Folk. Robb wasn't king though, and he wasn't responsible for what had happened in the past - couldn't the Free Folk see that they would have had a better chance at discussing the situation with the king and trying to understand each other rather than kidnapping and killing the heir to the throne? With Robb dead, their father and Catelyn would have sent Commander Mormont and the whole army to avenge him - the Free Folk would have been nothing but a memory in a matter of days.

Something didn't add up. Why risk so much, after years of laying low just to kill an innocent prince?

"Plans change," Mance stated, casting a sharp glance at Tormund when the ginger man mumbled something that sounded like _we didn't get to choose_.

Jon frowned. Did it mean that even Mance obeyed to someone? Interesting...

"We are going to demand a ransom," Mance quickly explained when he realised that Jon had caught his brief exchange with Tormund, trying to downplay his reaction and draw the young man's attention away from it, "We'll see just how much Winterfell wants you back."

On these ominous words, the three members of the Free Folk left the room, locking the door once more, and Jon waited until they were out to visibly deflate. Winterfell would never want him back - his father and siblings, maybe, but the Court wouldn't concern itself with the fate of the bastard son. Jory and Rodrik perhaps, because they were close friends with Ned and had known Jon since he was a boy... but what would the Head of Security and the Hand of the King do against the veto of people like Baelish or Bolton, who saw him as a nuisance? Besides... The North couldn't afford to pay too large a ransom - with what money?

Jon rested his forehead on the table and closed his eyes. If his father didn't find a way to pressure his advisors into agreeing to pay the ransom, if they couldn't find the money, he was under no illusions about the fate he would meet. A bastard son was of little use to people like the Free Folk.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny detail by tiny detail, the plot thickens... The next chapter will give you Cat's and Tormund's POV, which I'm really excited to share with you. Thank you very much for reading so far!


	4. The burdens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm back! So, I know I promised you Tormund's POV in this chapter but I got a bit carried away so it will actually come in the next chapter, pinky promise. Con, you have to wait a little; pro, you'll get one full chapter through Tormund's eyes. And what a chapter that shall be... On that foreshadowing, enjoy your reading!

  


Catelyn slipped out of bed in silence, the flashlight of her phone illuminating the way so she wouldn't stub her toe on one of the massive bedposts that supported her mattress, and she slowly glided toward the door of the bedroom. Careful not to wake up Ned, she didn't make a sound when she exited the room and once that was done, she took a few seconds to lean against the closed door, letting out a tired sigh.

She couldn't sleep. To be honest, she didn't understand how anyone could on this aisle of the castle, with so much noise coming from the hall... She was grateful that her children's bedrooms were situated on the other side of the castle, with a view on the gardens and the ancient Godswood, far more peaceful than her own. Ned hadn't stirred though, probably too exhausted to react to the whines and howls echoing downstairs, and Cat would be glad if he could get even a few hours of sleep.

Her husband's son had been missing for a bit longer than twenty-four hours and this single day had changed Ned in a way she wouldn't have thought possible. His cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken, he looked pale and anxious, guilt-ridden, and she found herself unable to help him.

The queen shook her head, pushed the next thought away from her mind and headed for the kitchens downstairs to prepare a late - very late - night snack, almost not noticing the two agents who fell into step behind her. She had grown used, after her marriage to Ned, to the close protection they were under once out of Winterfell, with bodyguards and precise timings to drive them from point A to point B without trouble. Protocol Direwolf reinforced security measures and being followed by her security detail into her own home was new, but she wasn't that unsettled by the presence behind her back.

The most upsetting procedure of the protocol had to be the lockdown, however. Ned and she had cancelled a few television appearances they were supposed to make, a trip to the Eyrie to see her sister, as well as debates and exhibitions they should have attended. They had to stay within the walls of Winterfell while the threat against their family hadn't been fully studied and understood. Even the gardens were off-limits for now, to Arya's despair. She was an adventurer, a girl who needed open spaces to feel like herself...

And now her half-brother was missing. Catelyn knew that she and the boy had a close relationship - well, he was close to all of her children, with the notable exception of Sansa who was too much like her mother to let him in. Now more than ever, Arya needed to get out, to scream her sadness and her pain inside the Godswood, or Cat knew that her pent-up frustration would make her do something reckless.

She couldn't even comfort her - nor Robb, or Bran, or Rickon... and least of all Ned. They all knew how she felt toward the boy so what would her words sound like, other than fake and forced? What would it look like if, after twenty-four years of belittling a boy she couldn't even call by his name in her mind, she tried to tell her children, her husband, that she understood their pain? It was both true and not, because she only needed to imagine that one of her own boys had been taken instead of her husband's son to _get_ it, to feel the pain Ned was going through now that his child was missing. As for the falseness of that statement...

Catelyn abruptly switched directions, abandoning the idea of drinking a mug of warm milk with honey, like her late mother used to make for her when she couldn't sleep as a girl. She turned, left, left again, bypassing the Council Room that was silent tonight, until she stopped in the hall where the noise was louder and all the more heartbreaking, even for her.

His red eyes sad, his tail hanging low, Ghost was pacing in front of the door, yipping as he scratched the wood from time to time, begging to be let out, to run, to find his missing master, before he sat back and howled, a lament for the absent friend. He turned his wolfish head toward the queen when he heard her, assessed that she wasn't a threat, and resumed his whining as he nosed at the threshold, bumping his forehead against the door.

The animal had behaved like this since midday, since in fact, he'd realised that he'd never spent that long without seeing his master. Rickon had cried, thinking it meant that his half-brother was dead.

"Has anyone tried to bring him to the kennel?" she enquired, turning toward her security detail.

"I believe Chief Luwin has tried, Your Grace," one of the agents answered. "Nearly lost his hand."

"Has he been fed?"

"He refuses to eat, Your Grace."

Catelyn nodded, looking at Ghost again, who glanced right back when he felt the weight of her gaze upon him. His red eyes seemed to put her in front of her lie and she had to look away from the animal. There was so much love for the boy inside him and so little inside her... She could never see him as her own, no matter how innocent a baby he was when Ned brought him home. How could she truly understand her husband's pain? She felt terrible, so wicked, for denying a baby boy the love of a mother he so desperately needed and the worst thing was that... in spite of the guilt churning in her stomach, she couldn't bring herself to regret her behaviour. She was unable to cross that line, to look at that boy and see anything else than the proof that somewhere, years ago, a woman had stolen Ned's heart from her.

She sighed and turned away from Ghost who was scratching at the door again while sad, pitiful whines escaped his throat. It was the boy who'd found the orphaned pups a few years ago, had stubbornly gone against everyone's recommendation to kill them, had convinced his father to give him and his half-siblings a shot at training them. Ned had eventually accepted: he'd always had a soft spot for his son, perhaps in compensation for the love Catelyn was denying him no matter how much he asked for it, with his sombre and sad eyes.

She had even argued with Ned about the boy no later than two weeks ago; she wanted to send him to King's Landing under the pretext of perfecting his education when in fact, she couldn't bear to see his dark eyes anymore, so different from her own blue gaze. And now he was gone.

"Your Grace," the other agent suddenly said, one finger pressed to her earpiece and bringing Catelyn a welcome distraction from the gloominess of her thoughts, "There are news concerning Jon Snow. His Majesty is awake and in the Council Room, waiting for the Councillors: a demand for ransom has just arrived."

Cat bit her lower lip, her heart doing some complicated somersault that she could not interpret. She didn't know whether the reason behind it was relief or dread.

  


  


Ned ran his hand over his drawn face, smoothing down his scruffy beard before joining his fingers beneath his chin. Everyone around the table was silent, eyes set on the large screen on the opposite wall on which they had just watched Mance Rayder and an impressive-looking redhead, whom Bolton was trying to identify as he typed on his tablet with furious fingers, demand a large ransom to deposit on an offshore account, in exchange for Jon's life. There was no footage of his boy though, so the video was only partly a relief for Ned who, while he could finally put a name and a face to the people responsible for the Moat Cailin attack, still didn't know if Jon was alive.

"The video arrived at 0411, twenty-two minutes ago," Baelish, Head of Secret Services and codename Littlefinger, was explaining, "My services have tracked down the IP address of the device that was used to upload the video which, predictably, turned out to belong to an internet café located in Deepwood Motte. No camera inside nor in the street, so no CCTV either... This is a total dead-end. Besides, while the video was put online in Deepwood Motte, I doubt this is also the place where they keep His Majesty's son, they most likely came from somewhere else and uploaded the video there, in order to cover their tracks. By _they_ , of course I mean the Free Folk and their leader, Mance Rayder."

"Tell us something we don't know," Rodrik growled.

Next to him, Robb's pursed lips and annoyed expression showed that he couldn't agree more with the Hand of the King, although he didn't say anything to openly side with him. His eyes betrayed him, though... The blue shade he'd inherited from his mother was too honest to hide his feelings of anguish and frustration that Ned understood all too well and judging by the irritation slowly reddening his face, Baelish had seen through it too.

There was another gleam in his son's eyes however, something like suspicion as he kept staring at Littlefinger, and no matter how much he squinted at Robb and tried to understand, Ned couldn't fathom why. The king wouldn't ask in front of an audience and since he didn't look forward to a repeat of the chaotic meeting from the previous night, he brought everyone's attention back to the issue at hand before Littlefinger and his oldest son could argue.

"Any idea when this video was recorded?" Ned enquired.

"The second man is holding a newspaper at the start of Mance's speech," Baelish answered after a beat, once he'd adverted his dark eyes from Robb and paused the video at its beginning, on a clear shot of the ginger man. "Yesterday's issue of the Northern Gazette."

Ned deflated. The Northern Gazette was a popular newspaper in the kingdom, not a local paper like he'd hoped, so this detail wouldn't even help them to pinpoint a city or a region. It was just enough to let them know the recording was recent... Mance was a clever man, Ned knew that, but their discomfiture hurt: they had no lead so far, nothing of substance to prepare Jon's rescue... Still, they had to be ready.

"Commander Mormont," Ned addressed the Commander of the Northern Army, "if we're closing in on the Free Folk, I want a Special Forces unit on standby. You know Mance Rayder better than anyone else, his tactics and what he's capable of..."

"The best men of the Night's Watch will be ready, Your Majesty," the old Commander assured him. "They'll be awaiting orders."

"Good. Bolton, an update on the ginger?"

"Negative, Your Majesty," Roose Bolton muttered before he put down his tablet, annoyance written all over his face as he glared at the device, "He doesn't appear to have a criminal record."

"They know how to lay low," Littlefinger added, "If they don't want to be found, they won't."

"We have to lure them out," Robb interfered, his face a battlefield where determination was fighting with the obvious remnants of youth around his cheeks to make him appear older, wiser. "First, we need to see my brother, we have to be sure that he's still alive. Let's send the Free Folk a message. If we can trick them into a live recording of Jon, the Secret Services might even be able to track them down to their actual location and we could send the Night's Watch immediately. If not... We give them our conditions: no payment on an offshore account. If they want their money, they'll have to meet us and give us Jon back first."

Ned's pride at his son's words didn't seem to find much of an echo around the table. He knew what irked some of his Councillors and he'd hoped to avoid such a topic, especially in front of Robb but since he had his place at the Council now... He'd have to learn to deal with hard truths and different opinions.

"Your Majesty," Rodrik softly said, in an attempt to spare Robb's feelings, "What money? The Crown cannot afford to pay such a large ransom."

"Don't sweeten it," Baelish scoffed, "We don't negotiate with people like the Free Folk, period. Even if the Crown could pay that sum... What? Should we crawl at Mance Rayder's feet and beg him to return Lord Snow?"

Ned had expected the jest, the nickname noblemen and commoners alike had given Jon as soon as he'd come back from the South with the baby more than twenty years ago. Robb hadn't, and he saw red. To his credit, he didn't even sound angry, didn't look out of control, didn't slam his fist on the table. Instead, he slowly rose to his feet, his fingertips still brushing the old oaken table as he stood and towered over the Council with his shoulders squared, seemingly larger than he was in fact, and the gaze he set on Littlefinger was almost as cold as his father's.

"Jon is my brother," he enunciated clearly, his tone harsh, "whether you like it or not. We will get him back, with or without your help - you're more than welcome to leave this room if you so wish, but don't expect an invitation to come back."

Ned coughed but Jory, next to him, was no fool and noticed his king's amusement. They had all grown so used to Littlefinger, his schemes and his snarky comments that they rarely even acknowledged them these days. In turn, Baelish had learned to, if he wasn't properly listened to whenever he opened his mouth and ran his honeyed tongue, at least be humoured but Robb, young and impetuous Robb, would take none of his bullshit. Ned was content to simply step back and watch Littlefinger grow paler, no doubt surprised by the Crown Prince's ultimatum.

Baelish was too greedy for power to abandon his seat on the Council however, even out of spite to answer Robb's provocation. With a meek smile that his narrowed eyes turned into a barely concealed threat, Littlefinger nodded once, a sharp up and down jerk of his head, and he sat a bit more comfortably on his chair with the clear intent to never relinquish it. It would have been funny, Ned thought, to see him so disgruntled, if this hadn't been about Jon.

"Your Highn... Majesty," Baelish struggled with the way he addressed Robb, probably on purpose although his embarrassment at his own clumsiness seemed genuine - one of Littlefinger's many tricks - but he looked as if he was sucking on a lemon as he added, "pardon me for my... inconsiderate words."

Ned waited until his son showed that he'd heard and accepted the weak apology - but Robb would not forgive nor forget the offence, not that Ned would either - and then he stood up.

"Allow me to clear this matter, in case there were any doubts regarding what we will do," he said as he walked toward the screen, where Mance Rayder and the redhead next to him were still on display, "What everyone around this table thinks about Jon is not my concern. One simple fact remains: he is my son and as such, I will do everything it takes to bring him back to Winterfell, with his family. If I cannot protect my children, all of them, how could I pretend to protect the people of the North?"

Ned paused and turned around to face his son and their Councillors.

"I agree that the Crown doesn't have the money," he admitted, glancing at Rodrik, then at Baelish, "and that we won't pay that ransom. I also agree with Robb that we should send a message to the Free Folk - we'll do that publicly, during a press conference we will hold this afternoon."

"Are you sure, Your Majesty?" Jory asked. "Couldn't it pose a risk to Jon?"

"The Free Folk have always liked to do things in the open," Bolton interfered, "to show just how much they could hurt the Crown. We would be playing their game but I think, if we give them the attention they want, they'll be more willing to discuss - and we might do just as His Majesty Robb suggested."

Ned closed his eyes in relief for a brief second when several whispers of agreement travelled around the table. No matter his little speech about Jon being his son, he knew that he wouldn't be allowed to do much if he didn't have the full support of his Councillors. Rodrik, Jory... They'd never pose a problem regarding Jon, no more than Commander Mormont who'd once told Ned that his son would be a valuable asset in the elite troops of the Night's Watch. If he wasn't mistaken, the old bear actually liked Jon well enough. However, Baelish and Bolton were something else... The latter was loyal to Ned and Robb though, if not to Jon, while the former had already managed to get on Robb's bad side enough for one day, so Littlefinger eventually nodded his assent.

Only one person around the table hadn't said anything yet. Tywin Lannister had remained quiet during the whole meeting but perhaps it wasn't that strange: not only was the man not directly concerned by the Free Folk who were a northern problem, he also liked to listen to everyone before he spoke, to consider every aspect of a situation, mostly those he could benefit from.

"I understand that you do not wish to negotiate with these people," Tywin finally said, "I wouldn't either. If you want to get your son back fast though, paying that ransom would be a necessary evil and an opportunity you could use to trap the Free Folk. In this scenario, the major issue seems to be the money... Have you considered that _I_ could loan you the amount that is necessary to pay the ransom these people demand?"

Ned had always respected Tywin - which didn't mean that he liked the man. The Lannisters had never been friends with the Starks before the Rebellion but Tywin had manoeuvred so that he made his family indispensable for both of the new rulers: Robert had married Cersei in the South and her father had lent considerable amounts of money to both the North and the South to pay the soldiers who'd followed them against the Targaryens, to rebuild what had been destroyed... and the Lannisters had become one of the most influent families in the South, while Tywin assumed the mantle of Financial Adviser for Robert's kingdom and sometimes for the North as well, although Ned tried not to use the Lannister money if he could avoid it.

"This is a very generous proposition," he carefully answered, casting a subtle glance around the table.

Robb looked like he would choke on the imprecations he was trying to hold back: they both knew that Tywin didn't give a damn about Jon and when the man said he _wouldn't either_ , Ned was pretty sure he wasn't only speaking of negotiating with the enemy. He mostly meant that he would never find himself in the king's situation because he would never _dishonour_ himself with a bastard child.

"The Crown is already in your debt," Rodrik pointed out, obviously displeased by his own reminder, "We couldn't possibly accept your... offer."

Ah, but it wasn't strictly speaking an offer, was it? Tywin would not propose his services if he didn't get something in exchange... and Ned had an idea what it could be. Cersei's wedding to Robert Baratheon, twenty years ago, had given Tywin a powerful ally in the South but in the North... He still had nothing, no one, and Ned hadn't failed to notice the childish but genuine interest that Rickon and Myrcella had shown each other at Moat Cailin.

"Thank you," Ned said anyway, "for your precious support. I will keep your suggestion in mind and make it plan B, in case plan A doesn't succeed. My family is lucky and most grateful for our partnership."

He stressed the last word and Tywin's eyes gleamed. Oh yes, they spoke the same language and Ned wasn't mistaken when he thought that the Lannister was seeking another royal alliance.

" _Family_ is everything, isn't it?" Tywin answered. "What is it you Starks say? The lone wolf dies, the pack survives? Wolves and lions both live in packs... We wouldn't want anything to happen to a member of our families, would we?"

Jory turned purple at the implications. Lions and wolves lived in packs indeed, Ned thought as he shook his head, but lions didn't accept several males in one pack - only wolves did and the Lannister's threat was veiled, albeit clear for who could listen. The growl that left Robb's throat and sounded so much like Grey Wind was thankfully drowned under the sudden buzz of the intercom screwed into the table in front of Ned's vacant seat. Luwin's voice echoed in the Council Room.

"I apologise for the disturbance, Your Majesty," the old man said, calm and unaware of the sudden tension in the Council Room. "His Majesty the King Robert Baratheon is on the phone, he would like to speak with you - and fast, if I may. He was rather upset when I put him on hold."

Ned chuckled. Count on Robert to make him laugh at such a time...

"In three minutes, Luwin," he answered his Chief of Staff, before turning to his Councillors. "Gentlemen, I'm afraid this call cannot wait any longer. As I've said, we shall go with plan A and the press conference first."

The men around him nodded and stood up, leaving the room shortly after and for a moment, as the door remained open, Ned could hear Ghost's lament down in the hall. The poor beast didn't understand why Jon hadn't come back from Moat Cailin with his siblings... unless he understood, _felt_ , better than any of them what had happened to his master.

"Bloody hell, Luwin!" Robert's gruff voice suddenly came out of the intercom, "Tell Ned to hurry up!"

"Good morning to you too, old friend," Ned commented, "What are you doing up so early? Wet your bed?"

Robert's exuberant laughter suddenly brought him back twenty-five years prior, on the bright and merry day they celebrated their victory on the Targaryens, when life was more dangerous and simpler at the same time.

"Varys told me you knew who took your boy," Robert told him, suddenly grave, "He and Littlefinger keep each other updated. Ned, I know the North has the Night's Watch but if you need help dealing with the Free Folk... My Gold Cloaks are yours."

"Thank you," Ned answered, genuinely moved by his old friend's offer, which he knew came without any condition and free of charge. "Tywin offered to loan me the money for the ransom, you know."

"Of course he did," Robert snorted, "Did he also tell you what he wants in return?"

"He implied that joining our families would be a great idea," Ned replied on a tone just this side of snappy, "You should have told me you decided that Myrcella and Rickon would be a good match. They're eleven!"

"Gods almighty, Ned!" Robert exclaimed, "Who do you take me for?! You think I would settle on our kids' wedding and wait for my father-in-law to break the news to you? I thought I was your friend!"

"You are," Ned quickly said when he realised that he had actually managed to upset the king, "but then..."

"I didn't wet my bed, you prick," the other groaned, "I was coming back from a party - one of Tyrion's parties, you know how they get - and I overheard Cersei and Jaime. Before you ask, I wasn't _that_ drunk and she was indeed talking about an alliance but not that of Myrcella and Rickon. Joffrey turned eighteen a few months ago."

"Sansa too," Ned realised in a breath.

"Yes. Which is why... Ned, he might be my son but trust me, you don't want him as your daughter's husband. If the Night's Watch is not enough to take Jon back, my Gold Cloaks will help you - seven hells, pay the Golden Company if you must but don't accept Tywin's offer. Sansa will only end up miserable. Sometimes I wonder how Joff and I are even related. So promise me, Ned..."

 _Promise me, Ned_... It reminded him of another promise, made with his hands bathed in warm blood and tears rolling down his young face. The king shook his head, chasing the memory out of his mind.

After Robert hang up, comforted by Ned's assurance that he didn't plan on marrying Sansa to anyone on any of these days, the king sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling older than he ever had. He was staring at the intercom without seeing it, his eyes lost beyond Winterfell, somewhere in his memories where he could breathe sand and see birds that didn't live in the North. He could see his own bloodied hands, running through long dark hair, brushing over a pale and sweaty cheek as he made a promise...

That was how Luwin found him, he couldn't say how much time later. Dawn had started to paint the sky in hues of pink and orange but the rising sun wasn't bringing the king any solace.

"I should have protected him," Ned whispered.

"You will find him, Your Majesty," Luwin assured him, not needing to read the king's mind to guess that he was talking about Jon. "You should get some rest now, it is still early. Making yourself sick with worry won't bring your son back faster."

Ned looked at him and Luwin was taken aback by the sadness in his eyes that he had noticed on many occasions before, although it had never been so intense and raw. There was a burden on his king's shoulders, a heavy weight that Ned had never allowed himself to share with anyone but as he stared at Luwin, assessing just how much he could trust him, the Chief of Staff realised that perhaps that time had finally come.

"What would you say," Ned slowly started, "if I told you that Jon isn't my son?"

Luwin blinked. So that was it... Slowly, he sat in front of Ned and took his hand in his own. When the younger man didn't take it back, Luwin smiled softly.

"Eddard," he said, "I've raised you and your siblings, I know you and what being a _Stark_ means. Even when you were younger and not yet king, honour dictated each of your actions. I had my suspicions that Jon wasn't yours since the day you came back to Winterfell with a crown on your head and a baby boy in your arms. I thought that perhaps... he was the orphan son of one of your fallen men but... The only man you were close to, enough to do something like this, was Robert and he was alive, King in the South. So I believed you, when you said he was yours. But now, you're telling me that he isn't your blood?"

"He is," Ned answered softly as his heart travelled underground, through dark alleys and to a statue of cold stone that had never managed to convey the warmth of his sister's smile, "Before she died, I promised Lyanna that I would take care of her son and raise him as mine, so no one, Robert especially, would know who he was."

"Rhaegar Targaryen's son," Luwin concluded in a gasp as the buried family history came back to the surface.

"And the rightful heir to the Crown," Ned whispered.

Behind the door, unbeknownst to both men, a shadow stepped back and disappeared into the corridors.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you so much for reading! I also hope you noticed a few interesting details, for example about Robb? We'll see!


	5. Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm back! I'm so sorry for the long delay between the 4th chapter and this one, August and September were quite busy months and this chapter was intense, so... I'm late. Regarding this chapter, it includes a few minor and canonical character deaths (and one very minor, original character), plus some violence. I guess you all survived watching GoT though so you should be alright. Enjoy!

  


Tormund's hands worked with fast precision around his gun, pulling each piece apart for cleaning and polishing, before they put it together again. The hard and cold lines of the Beretta felt familiar between his fingers, like the body of a lover he'd mapped with his fingertips and could retrace with his eyes closed, every inch of the gun singing a secret song only he understood. The Beretta was his loyal friend, had been for many years, and everyone and their mother knew how much Tormund cared about that gun - fewer knew why.

Most of the benches and stools in the arsenal were occupied by members of the Free Folk checking the good functionality of their weapons and cleaning them, just like him, except that they didn't share his silence. Loud laughter and good-humoured taunts apparently made the task less tedious but Tormund still let his gaze wander across the room to inspect everyone's work from afar. When he didn't detect any sloppy job, he smiled with pride, glad that they all understood what an important difference functional weapons could make in their fight for freedom.

He glanced at the only man who wasn't talking nor laughing, for the simple enough reason that he didn't want to bother Tormund as he was sitting on his right side, not far from him though at a safe and deferent distance due to his status as Mance's right arm. Well, Tarin wasn't a man _per se_ , not yet, seventeen and still pimply but already taking care of a Glock with minute and swift gestures that betrayed experience.

Tormund frowned. He hated that most of their children were better at shooting a gun than playing games their age or meeting up with friends after school. Thanks to Ygritte, his own daughters rarely missed their targets when they threw knives... and they were only nine and eleven. There was a hard and centuries-old truth to being children of the real North, which meant that the first skill to learn in life was survival, even though persecutions had stopped since the Targaryens' demise... The relations between them and Winterfell might have become slightly less tense along the past twenty years or so, Free Folk still weren't listened to whenever they asked for their lands back... Hence the current situation. _That_ would probably rekindle some ancient but never-forgotten tensions.

Because of that and in spite of his daughters' abilities, Tormund had refused to bring them here. He might be ready to sacrifice himself for the cause, he wouldn't stand to have his girls exposed to the same dangers he was. It had broken his heart but still he'd left them with the eldest members of his and Ygritte's tribe farther up North, far from Winterfell and its immediate surroundings, just in case this risky business blew up in their face... In hindsight, he'd been right to do so.

He didn't feel comfortable, housing the little crow in their headquarters. He wouldn't have minded Robb Stark since, well, he'd been their _actual_ target, but of course Bones had to go and ruin everything. Idiot. Mance should never have sent him, though Tormund guessed it was too late to debate about bad decisions and poor choices. What was done, was done.

At the same time, if he really thought about it, perhaps it was better they'd taken Jon Snow instead of the heir to the throne: the Young Wolf might have been dead already. Contrarily to popular belief, Free Folk were not barbarians and Tormund knew Mance himself would have been loath to kill the Young Wolf, when they could use him for an exchange - a firstborn son for part of their ancestral lands sounded fair, didn't it? - but they weren't holding the reins anymore and their orders had been clear. _Kill Robb Stark_. Now their hands were tied with the deal they'd made and they had to honour it if they wanted to get the money and guns they were promised, and thus reduce the distance between them and their ultimate goal to take back their lands.

The Free Folk were lucky to still be alive after Bones' huge mistake... A chance their backer had changed his plans, even though Tormund was sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop: they'd failed their mission, surely there would be consequences. For now though, Tormund felt better knowing Snow's life was safe - as long as Winterfell paid up. If their king didn't and the Free Folk couldn't go on with the plan... Well, they would have no choice but to get rid of Eddard Stark's bastard son.

Tormund felt queasy at the thought, as he remembered the resignation on the little crow's face the previous afternoon, when he'd enquired if they would slaughter him. The question had come out in a slow trickle, as if the boy feared the answer, but his voice hadn't cracked in front of them. He wasn't supposed to die... but perhaps Winterfell wouldn't leave them any other choice.

It felt terribly unfair. After all, wasn't the boy just another victim of royalty? Despite having a king for father, what was he, really? Nothing. Neither the heir to the throne nor someone who would be trusted with heavy responsibilities since he wasn't _family_ but more of a keepsake from the South. Tormund knew how the queen and the medias treated Snow - his royal father had been too honourable in the past twenty-five years to still be blamed for cheating on his wife all these years ago but the boy... The rare times they deemed him worth mentioning at all, the newspapers seemed to consider Jon as a permanent stain on the pristine sheets of the monarchy - the same papers that depicted the Free Folk as rebels and listed their misdeeds without writing a word on the royal family's own reprehensible actions. It wasn't surprising, when...

The sudden, shrill sound of a siren scattered his thoughts. Tormund remained seated for a second, frozen among his fellow Northerners who all looked confused as they listened to the security system of their headquarters go off, before he realised what was happening and jumped to his feet. They were under attack.

"Enemies inside the perimeter!" he yelled, "Out, everybody out, now!"

Free Folk were bad at accepting orders - not to mention, obeying them - but Tormund didn't doubt that they would follow his. Mance had managed to somewhat discipline them along the years and they'd learned by now that neither he nor Tormund bossed them around for their own benefit. Whatever command passed their lips was meant for one purpose only, the survival of their clans - today would not be an exception.

Confident that his people knew what to do, his reflexes kicked in and Tormund slipped his Beretta into the holster at his belt, before he turned towards the back wall of the arsenal to grab an M4A1. Although the automatic carbine felt heavier in his hands and more dreadful than his beloved pistol, Tormund didn't hesitate to shoulder it - for which he was glad when a small explosion blew the door of the armoury right off its hinges and filled the room with dust, bits of torn metal and strangled cries of pain as iron cut through skin and muscles.

"Get down!" he screamed, expecting a rain of bullets to fall upon them, and he reached out for Tarin, to protect him and...

Tormund was just about to close his fist around the teenager's sweater when the people outside opened fire. He didn't see the bullet but he watched, helpless and halted in his movement, as it pierced a hole through Tarin's head. Blood splattered his face. Tormund jerked backward as more of his people fell and he only had the time to kick a table, overturn it and duck. A few milliseconds later, the brick of the wall he'd been standing in front of was smashed by another bullet.

Fuck. They made easy targets in this small room with no other exit than the blown door, they needed to get out of the arsenal _now_ or they would all be shot down in the span of a few minutes!

Tormund snarled as he rolled over, until he could stick the canon of the M4 between the legs of the table and lean on those to aim the carbine at the door. They wanted to play? Fine, they would play. It didn't matter that he couldn't see his attackers with the smoke floating around, he didn't even know who they were, but his bullets would find their way eventually... so he fired away. He aimed as best as he could and was rewarded with the sound of bodies hitting the floor but the assault on the armoury didn't cease - how many were they, out there?

A bullet grazed the top of his table and Tormund yelped. Shit, shit, shit... He blinked, breathed through his nose and let the air pass his gritted teeth as he tried to push back the panic slowly rising in his chest. He had to focus, to stay in the fight and not think of how close he was to death as bullets slammed into the wall behind him. His resolve couldn't falter.

Tormund endured, soldiered on and kept shooting for just as long as he was getting shot at. He didn't dare to stop for one second, not while his ammo lasted, not even to look around and determine who was still alive and fighting by his side. Someone was there, he was certain of it, because he could see bodies collapse across the threshold, dead or agonising after a bullet that didn't belong to his M4 found its way to their opponents' flesh.

The answer came when the bullets suddenly stopped pouring on them and he nearly laughed, relieved and horrified at the same time as he quickly turned his head and located Karsi, kneeling behind another knocked-down table. Tormund was glad to have his friend by his side but she had two daughters just like him and he dreaded to think of what would become of them all if their mother or their father didn't make it back... but they had to.

Karsi's weapons were two simple revolvers, far from enough to fight off people who were armed with automatic rifles, but she was a woman of the North and a raw fierceness flowed through her veins. She didn't hesitate to charge side by side with Tormund when the enemies who stood on the other side of the door quit shooting in order to reload. It lasted only a moment, a few seconds at most, but it was enough for Tormund and Karsi to move forward and rush to the door, their guns spitting death.

They made it. They passed the threshold before their opponents could start shooting at them again and Tormund slammed the M4 in someone's throat - a man, judging by the hoarse wheeze he let out beneath his helmet as he collapsed, breathless. Tormund ditched the carbine that had become more of an hindrance as he engaged in close combat, just in time for his fist to fly in another man's guts, followed by his knee.

Karsi fired a shot. The hallway outside the armoury was so narrow and crowded that her revolver went off close to his face and he flinched as his ears rang, but then he realised that she'd incapacitated someone behind him, just enough to make them drop the knife they were ready to slam between his shoulder blades. In a daze and off-balance, he still tried to be quick as he grabbed the knife and swung at the next opponent who came up. When the blade bounced off the Kevlar vest, Tormund ducked, nearly losing his footing in the process, but he managed to slash at the fragile flesh in the crook of the man's knee. Karsi finished him off as Tormund staggered backwards, his ears still ringing and his eyesight losing its neat focus.

"I need a moment!" he shouted.

"We don't have one!" she shot back, taking down one more attacker with her revolver that would probably need reloading soon.

"Hold them off!"

Tormund ignored her protestations and went back inside the arsenal. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and pretend he couldn't see the bodies that lay dead at his feet, Free Folk, friends, gone too soon, and he detached a rifle from its spot on the wall to set it down for a future use. Then, he wrapped his hand around a grenade and pulled the pin on another one.

"Karsi!" he yelled as he ran to the door, "Get inside, now!"

She moved back at the same time as he released the spoon on the grenade and threw it, then he gathered her in his arms and they flattened themselves to the ground, hands on the back of their heads. They heard the explosion outside the arsenal but they mostly felt it, in their bones and the ground that quivered with the vibrations from the deflagration. The noise of the explosion slowly died down, until silence settled over the hallway and Tormund couldn't help but be glad that there seemed to be no sign of life beyond the door.

"Do something like that again and I'll kill you," Karsi let out a threatening growl even as she elbowed Tormund in the ribs and forced him to roll away from her, before she asked in a worried whisper, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he answered while standing up, though her voice as well as his own sounded off to his ears, the syllables muffled, as if bits of concrete had tempered with his hearing ability. "You?"

She nodded and winced as she got back on her feet, reaching for his outstretched hand as support. Her back cracked.

"Bloody hell," she mumbled as she looked around the arsenal and took in the massacre, then she glared at the door. "These bastards had better be dead or they'll regret surviving your grenade in the first place."

Tormund nodded and grabbed the rifle he'd set aside before he skipped to the door, trying not to make a noise that might be heard and warn of his arrival anyone still able to fight, on the other side. He suddenly realised how silent the whole area was when it shouldn't have been and he grew even more anxious and tense as he noticed that the alarm had stopped ringing throughout the hallways. What did it mean? That they'd regained control over their own headquarters? Or that they'd lost it, definitively?

He peeked in the corridor with caution and some of the tension residing in his shoulders loosened when not a single body stirred. The walls were painted red and still, he didn't allow himself to relax his fingers around the rifle.

Karsi followed him outside the arsenal and it said a lot about their life that they didn't blink nor hesitated to step over the dead bodies, oblivious to the way the soles of their shoes were gently sticking to the floor, concrete reduced to cement powder, bullet cases and bits of guts like a red carpet beneath their feet.

"Who were they?" Karsi suddenly wondered, a question Tormund hadn't paid much attention to until then.

The priority had been survival.

Eventually, he knelt next to one of the bodies to examine the outfit it was clad in, ripped and burned in places. The Free Folk in the armoury hadn't known who was shooting at them - how could they have? They hadn't been expecting an attack. The location of their headquarters was supposed to be a well-kept secret... Had they been betrayed?

The man at his feet was dressed in black from head to toe. His combat boots and tactical gear screamed that he belonged to the army, an hypothesis Tormund guessed was confirmed by the chain around the man's mangled neck. It was broken and the dog tags he'd hoped were hanging from the chain would have been enough to prove he was a soldier but he found all the evidence he actually needed in another, subtle but far more significant hint. Yeah, these soldiers were dressed in black... except for the tiny silver brooch pinned above the heart, shaped in the head of a wolf howling.

"The Night's Watch," Tormund spat in disgust, straightening up. "Always them..."

"How did they find us?" Karsi asked, her eyes wide in sudden fear, and Tormund knew she was thinking about her daughters. "It's impossible!"

Was it, really? What if Ned Stark knew more than the Free Folk thought he did? If he'd gotten intelligence on their location, whatever his source, it made sense that he would send his elite forces to snatch his son back instead of paying the ransom Mance demanded. The little crow might be a bastard, he remained Stark's son and Tormund understood the urge to protect one's family - he respected it, admired it, even. However, if the king had managed to pinpoint their headquarters, who was to say he would not also find their houses in Mole's Town, a place so far up North the Free Folk nearly felt at home... a sort of home they'd made in a North that wasn't fully theirs, the wild and real North in their hearts reduced to a small town where they'd left their children, the sick and the elders of their clans.

"The kids are safe," he growled mostly to convince himself, already thinking of what he would do to anyone who would harm his daughters or anyone else's children, even though the Starks had never shared the Targaryens' tendencies for cruelty. "They won't find them."

Karsi nodded, a ferocious determination in her eyes.

"Let's move," she decided, "I'm sure this group wasn't the only one to get inside."

Tormund followed her lead through the corridors of their headquarters, where the hallways and corners they knew like the back of their hand now seemed foreign to them, and they trod carefully, expecting and even hoping to stumble upon more men clad in black. He understood Karsi's meaning perfectly well: if they could find more soldiers of the Night's Watch and keep at least one of them alive, maybe they would learn the extent of Ned Stark's knowledge about them.

Karsi led them both through the headquarters that were still deadly silent, a fact that didn't fail to strengthen their nervousness, already showing in the tight clench of their fingers on their weapons or the bead of sweat rolling down Tormund's temple and vanishing into the red hair of his beard. He didn't need to ask to know where she was taking them: to Jon, to the one room toward which each and every man of the Night's Watch was supposed to converge for the rescue mission.

The Free Folk were going to keep the little crow, no matter the cost; Tormund, Karsi and whoever else was still alive would make sure of that. They couldn't let him escape, not when they needed him for the ransom - he was their only hope to get what they wanted in the long run...

They passed more bodies on their way, Free Folk and Stark's men alike. It came as relief just as much as dread not to see Ygritte anywhere. Was she safe? She wouldn't run away in front of the enemy, not a woman like her... So was she fighting for her life, far from any friend to help? Or... was it too late for her already? Tormund shook his head when his brain summoned, uninvited, an image of Ygritte with a thin line of blood streaming from her lips as her corpse cooled down in a deserted hallway. No, not her. She'd be fine. She had to be.

As they turned around a corner and into yet another hallway that was close to their dining room, Karsi gasped at the sight of a body, still and bloody like the others they'd passed, though her reaction was much more violent.

"Mance!" she shouted in distress, the need for prudence and stealth forgotten at the gruesome sight of their leader's corpse.

"Karsi, wait!"

Tormund tried to hold her back, his instinct screaming at him that it was a trap but her wrist slipped through his fingers like sand and he knew it was too late. She ran to their leader, their friend, his unseeing eyes staring forever at the cracks in the white ceiling above their heads. She slowed down when she reached him, her legs already bending so she could kneel by his side and check his pulse in one last desperate attempt at denying the truth, but she never even got the chance to realise and grieve for his death.

The Stark soldier rounded the opposite corner so fast that Karsi didn't notice him until pain bloomed in her chest like a deadly flower, its bloody roots spreading across her skin and soaking her blouse. She gasped and her eyes widened at the sight of all that red over her chest, before they rose to the shooter and his gun still out, ready for another lethal discharge. She collapsed before he could shoot her again, revealing Tormund to the soldier who'd been focused on her only.

This one would give him all the information he needed, Tormund decided even as fury filled his chest and mind, more dangerous than the pain and despair pulsing through his veins at the thought that so many of his own were dead or close to be. Tarin, Mance, Karsi... Perhaps even Ygritte. He didn't know and it didn't matter: this one would pay for everything the Starks had done to his friends.

The scream that left Tormund's throat didn't sound like anything human; it was feral, like that of a wild animal looking to frighten its opponent, and he marched on the soldier with his head held high and his rifle aiming low, firing in the legs of the Stark's puppet with a snarl. He passed next to Mance and Karsi without daring to glance at them while he wasn't finished, not certain that he would stand the sight of their lifeless gazes.

The soldier soon fell to his knees, at least one tibia shattered and blood gushing from one bullet-shaped hole pierced through the meat of his thigh. He tried to crawl away but his attempt at fleeing the battlefield was cut short when Tormund stepped on his broken leg and elicited a scream of pain so shrill, even with the helmet, he could have thought the alarm had gone off again. It wasn't pretty to see nor hear and yet, it filled Tormund with a sadistic kind of contentment.

When the soldier finally stopped screaming and switched to weak whimpers instead, Tormund flipped him over and grabbed the head gear. When he made to take it off, the bloody mess at his feet tried to punch him, seemingly desperate to keep him away from his face, although he quickly gave up when Tormund kicked his wounded thigh with the point of his foot. _Hard_.

The helmet flew away, followed by a hood as dark as the rest of the clothes, and Tormund gaped when two terrified eyes he'd seen before looked at him.

"W... What?" he stammered as he took in the fair hair, the tentative start of a pale blond moustache above a shaky lip, the clear eyes in which an unspeakable fear had settled. "What the fuck, boy?"

Lancel Lannister quivered at his words, not at all superb and poised like he'd been so many months ago, when Tywin Lannister and he had approached Mance and Tormund to negotiate a deal: Robb Stark's life for their lands. Tormund blinked in confusion even as the truth started to emerge in his mind, slowly, cautiously, as if he refused to face it and realise just how foolish they had all been. The enemy's apparent knowledge of their location, the Night's Watch uniforms... He had to be sure but... It had been a trick, nothing else.

"This... All of this," Tormund growled, gesturing wildly with his left hand to encompass the carnage behind him, "The Lannisters? Are you working for the Starks?"

"Lannisters," Lancel started with a gargle, before he spat a mouthful of blood, "don't... work for anyone. You... You fucked up."

Bloody hell. There it was, the other shoe dropping. Fuck! Mance should have known... Shit, _he_ 'd had an inkling that the Lannisters wouldn't just forget about their mistake. They should have fled as soon as they realised that they'd taken the wrong hostage... They'd been fools, to believe that Tywin would let them get away with it. Now that Tormund really thought about it, the head of the Lannister house had probably planned the Free Folk's demise since day one to ensure their eternal silence regarding their business, even if they had delivered the Crown Prince's body in his golden hands. They'd fucked up indeed...

"So Tywin is cleaning up after himself?" Tormund asked, slowly lowering his rifle as the dramatic consequences of Bones' actions became clear, clear and terrifying. "He's taking Snow back to Winterfell himself?"

Even he understood that it didn't make any sense. If Tywin expected Ned to welcome him back like a hero, why bother putting on the uniform of the Night's Watch and not the crimson red of his house? Especially since this wasn't the alliance the Lannister wanted... and Jon Snow wasn't important to his plans. What had changed?

"The bastard dies... today," Lancel declared with whatever remnants of pride he still had, before a smile curled his bloody lips upwards. "Killed by the Starks."

That explained the uniforms... but why? Why would Tywin Lannister want the little crow to die? Why did he want to make it look like the king's soldiers were responsible?

"Why?" Tormund eventually asked.

The Lannister boy pursed his lips, until fresh blood dripped down his chin. Oddly, Tormund didn't think it was stubbornness or loyalty that kept Lancel from talking: the prospect of a few well-aimed tickles from his foot would have been enough to make him spill his darkest secrets, his most unmentionable sins... If he didn't speak, it only meant that he didn't know anything about his uncle's plans.

Tormund's next move was slow, deliberate, and he made sure that Lancel's eyes didn't miss one second of the calm way he took his Beretta out of his holster. The young man's face fell, horror replacing the last hints of confidence he'd managed to keep on his expression until then. It didn't change Tormund's decision.

"The Lannisters always pay their debts, I've heard," he whispered, "Well I'll start with you. This is for Tarin."

Tormund shot him without blinking an eye but the sight of the Lannister's bloody forehead didn't make him feel any better. Tarin was still dead.

After one last glance behind his shoulder and a thought for Mance and Karsi, Tormund took off and headed for the room where Jon Snow was locked up. He didn't know why he was running to him, why he wasn't leaving the headquarters now that they'd been compromised - he needed to get to safety and wait for survivors, to regroup and plan anew. He was Mance's right arm; as long as he was alive, the Free Folk's fight could go on.

Still, he couldn't ignore that an innocent man was about to get slaughtered for the Lannisters' benefit. He didn't understand why and it didn't really matter, this was about making the right choice... Tormund couldn't help but think about Tarin, young and full of hopes for his and his people's future, killed in a fight that he shouldn't have been a part of in the first place. He'd been too young for this. Jon Snow was too young to die, too. Besides, if Tormund managed to rescue him in time and bring him back to Winterfell before the Lannisters caught him... Maybe it would convince Ned Stark to reward the Free Folk. It was a long shot but it was worth trying. If he didn't, they'd both end up dead anyway.

When Tormund reached Jon's room, the door was ajar, telltale sign that the enemy had preceded him. Was he too late? He stepped closer without making the slightest noise, holding his breath, until he heard voices.

"What are you doing?!"

The little crow. He was still alive! He sounded confused, not scared yet, as he addressed someone else in the room... How many soldiers were there, though?

"I said, get on your knees!" another voice yelled, followed by a subtle noise that Tormund recognised all too easily and that made his heart beat faster.

The sound of the gun safety being taken off was all the little crow needed to panic... and then get angry. Ah. No self-preservation sense, that was Snow alright.

"What are you... Stop!" he shouted, and Tormund carefully pushed the door open, any noise he could have made covered by Jon's words, "You're the Night's Watch, why... Wait, are you working with the Free Folk? Traitors!"

"Shut up," the soldier in front of him growled, aiming his gun at Jon's face.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that the little crow was alone with the Lannister soldier. Jon was on his knees, facing the door, while the soldier had his back on Tormund and hadn't seen nor heard him so far. A wonder he had not killed the boy yet, if he believed he was on his own and could act with complete impunity... What was he waiting for?

Jon, on the other hand, opened his eyes wide in surprise when he caught Tormund entering the room with his Beretta set on the back of the soldier's head. Tormund put a finger to his lips.

The little crow had no reason to trust him and stay quiet and yet, he did. He even went out of his way to keep the soldier's full and undivided attention on him by trying to stand up, which didn't please the Night's Watch impostor at all.

"Stay where you are!" he yelled, his finger on the trigger.

"Or what?" Jon challenged him, his expression so incredibly ferocious and mocking at the same time that Tormund couldn't say he wasn't a tiny bit impressed - the boy really had no idea when to shut his trap. "You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you? What are you waiting for? Do it!"

The soldier lifted his gun higher and...

BANG!!

The soldier stumbled when a bullet ripped his throat open. He fell forward with a sickening gurgle while Tormund put his Beretta back into his holster as if nothing had happened, though the blood spurting from the wound and gathering into a steadily-growing puddle on the floor said otherwise. One knee still bent, Jon blinked and paled, before he quickly stood up and stepped back right before his shoes could get tinted red. When he leaned his back against the wall behind him, Tormund could see his body shake. Shit.

"You okay?" he asked with a gruff.

"You killed him..." Jon whispered in shock.

"Yeah," Tormund confirmed with a nod, "What else was I supposed to do? Wait for him to dump your bits in a river? You're welcome."

Jon looked at him helplessly, unsure whether he was supposed to thank him or just let that comment slide. After a second, he settled for the other.

"The Night's Watch..." he started.

"... ain't what it seems," Tormund finished for him as he came closer and put his hands on the crow's shoulders in hopes to ground him - he was glad when Jon didn't flinch at the touch. "Come on, I'll explain later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

Jon followed him without opposing any resistance, his wild eyes screaming the confusion he wasn't voicing out. If Tormund tried to think like him, the situation didn't make sense at all: the Night's Watch, his father's elite troops, had just tried to murder him and his captor had actually saved his life. This might be the only reason that justified his willingness to go with Tormund at all...

They were fortunate enough, as Tormund led the way through the headquarters, not to come across any unpleasant surprise, neither an ambush nor a pile of corpses. Even as he ran and stayed close to Tormund, Jon was glancing all around, his confusion slowly turning into curiosity since it was his first time seeing anything beyond the four walls of the room where he'd spent the last two days. Now however, that knowledge would not be of any use.

Tormund couldn't hide his relief when they arrived in the garage without trouble and he pulled back an ugly blue tarpaulin to uncover a motorbike. With a little rummaging and banging around the place, he got his hands on two helmets, one of which he handed to the little crow, who only stared at him in silence. His eyes were filled with hesitation but no trace of fear.

"You trust me, Jon Snow?" he asked on a low tone, his gaze catching the younger man's.

"Does that make me a fool?" Jon answered, his voice just this side of provocative as he grabbed the helmet with a new sort of determination, and Tormund let go.

"We're fools together now."

Tormund didn't waste more time and swiftly raised his leg over the top of his bike to get on, while Jon awkwardly scrambled his way on as well. When Tormund started the engine, he could almost feel the discomfort rolling off Snow in waves.

"I've never ridden a bike before," the boy confessed when Tormund turned his head to look at him with arched eyebrows.

"Hold on tight then, little crow."

  


  


Ygritte dug her knife in the belly of the last man standing with a snarl of satisfaction. The blade came away bloody and the sudden exhaustion that followed gradually put out the fire in her eyes. She didn't think there were any survivors among her people but at least, she'd done her best to even the amount of dead on both sides... Though that would not bring her friends back.

She spat on the body at her feet. She hadn't believed Ned Stark could be as cruel as to send his Night's Watch not only to get Jon Snow back but also to kill every single one of them. Or maybe not _everyone_. She hadn't seen Tormund anywhere... and she was still alive. She only had to find him, search through the Free Folk's safe houses she knew of and then, they would avenge the dead together.

She would kill Jon Snow herself.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really looking forward to reading what you thought about this chapter, I hope you liked it. Thank you for reading!


	6. Runaways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the long wait, I focused on another story for a while and couldn't find time for this one. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter ;)

  


The bike was roaring between Tormund's thighs as the man drove through streets that Jon could not recognise. He'd tried to keep his eyes open behind the shield of his helmet when they'd left the garage but his exhaustion and the shock of both the attack and his rescue, by no other than his captor, disoriented him so much that he felt dizzy. The fast pace of their progression through this town he hadn't been able to identify didn't help and Jon eventually snapped his eyelids shut, fighting nausea.

His body was tired and his brain wasn't faring much better. Jon felt like his world had just shifted on its axis, since a member of the Free Folk had saved him from his father's own men, and he was currently clinging to the aforementioned man who... was built like a freaking brick shithouse. Jon's thoughts should not have strayed further down that path but right then, with his arms tightly wrapped around the man's waist so he would - hopefully - not fall off the bike, he could not help but think that the strong back he'd glued his chest to felt reassuring. As odd and unfathomable as it sounded, that solid body brought him the small dose of comfort he absolutely needed in this instant, in order to keep his last shreds of moral strength and not completely panic.

It had been a while since Jon had last felt so terrified and alive at the same time - that might have been when he was eleven and had just broken one of Catelyn's beloved vases in the bedroom she shared with his father. He should not have found himself into that haven meant for the king and the queen in the first place but Arya had lost her stuffed bear, so Robb and he had decided they would find the plush toy and they'd thoroughly searched every room of the castle.

It wasn't _really_ Jon's fault that he'd looked beneath the chest drawer and his elbow knocked the vase over when he stood up, was it? Had Robb done the exact same thing, his mother wouldn't have worked herself up into a rage... but Catelyn seemed to think that Jon had destroyed the vase on purpose, just to annoy her. He still remembered how his brother had grabbed his hand and hightailed it, dragging him along, until they were hiding in the gardens as far from reach as they could get, and laughing like two maniacs. Robb had given him courage at the time, as he didn't fear his mother's wrath, but even so Jon had been frightened enough for the both of them. Good times.

Jon realised that Tormund had left town when the sharp turns they were taking from one street to the other turned into a long line, before the ginger sped up along a straight road. It prompted him to open his eyes again, cautiously, to the sight of thick layers of snow covering the fields on each side of the road. The night Bones had taken him away from Moat Cailin, the sky had been dark but void of snow, and the torn walls of the old castle had enabled the guests to see the stars outside.

That either meant that two days had been enough for the sky to crack open and spit a storm of snowflakes on them - which might have been possible a few decades earlier, when the weather was even less kind to Northerners than it was now - or the Free Folk had detained him in the upper North, far from Moat Cailin and Winterfell, in lands where it could still snow quite early in the year.

Perhaps the latter option was the right one, Jon reckoned. He might not know where he was and only had a vague idea of the time, but he was certain that they were heading southwards, following the way to a pale sun that was trying to warm up the snowed fields. What must have been a few hours before the Night's Watch attack on the Free Folk headquarters, Bones had served Jon breakfast, scrambled eggs and toasts with a small and ripe apple. If Jon's intuition and empty stomach didn't fail him, then it must be closing in on midday and the sun was at his highest, right in front of them as it shone on their path.

Tormund and he had fled the scene as they were: Jon in the same dress shirt he'd been wearing at the commemorations when Bones had grabbed him with his dirty paws, while the redhead was at least clad in a thick woollen sweater... that barely managed to warm up Jon's fingertips, where they were clutching the fabric. A cold wind was biting at their bodies as Tormund kept speeding up and soon, Jon started to think that the Night's Watch might as well have killed him. It would have been faster. He couldn't feel his fingers nor his toes anymore and the rest of his body would probably turn into an ice cube soon enough.

Only his face still felt relatively warm, thanks to the heavy helmet Tormund had handed him before their departure, surprised when he'd realised that the man truly intended to leave the Free Folk headquarters with him. It probably wasn't out of the goodness of his heart, for he must have an agenda, though Jon failed to see it so far. Then Tormund had taken him aback again with his question, _do you trust me?_ , and Jon had surprised himself even more when he'd implied that yes, he did. Limited in his options, what else could he have done? He'd chosen to entrust the man with his life, foregoing all logical reasoning as he grabbed the offered helmet. Then again, logic didn't seem to matter much in his current predicament: nothing made sense to him anymore.

Still he'd climbed on the bike behind Tormund. The rare times he'd thought about the Free Folk prior to actually meeting them, he'd pictured them like faceless, bloodthirsty savages and brash people without morals nor respect for the laws of the kingdom - and he wasn't completely wrong about that. Thus Jon hadn't exactly pegged Tormund for someone who would bother with a helmet when riding a bike, no matter how dangerous that could be... It was easier to imagine the redhead with wild hair mussed up by the cold winds of the North.

To be honest, Jon wasn't sure that they were wearing helmets for their safety. He wouldn't be surprised to hear that Tormund had only grabbed these so neither of them would be recognised in the middle of the day, nor be arrested by the police for disobeying the traffic laws... Which would turn out really badly for Tormund, if he was caught with Eddard Stark's kidnapped son.

Technically speaking, the ginger man wasn't the one who'd abducted Jon but he doubted that anyone would take that tiny detail into account. The young man was the Free Folk's prisoner regardless of _who_ had attacked Moat Cailin, even now, even though Tormund and he were kind of running away together, and he would remain captive as long as no one noticed the bike and the two men on it. If Jon didn't receive any help from the outside, then perhaps it was about time he did something by himself. He hadn't been given the chance before, when he was locked up into a room, but now that they were out in the open...

He could jump, fling himself away from the bike - and pray that he didn't kill himself in the process. Even if he didn't, he'd probably injure himself by landing the wrong way and it would be easy enough for Tormund to pick up his frozen body from the ground, strap him to the bike and never let his guard down again, thus preventing any future attempt at escaping. Conclusion, jumping was a terrible idea.

Jon deflated and he clung to Tormund just a tiny bit tighter when the man leaned forward and drove even faster than before - he was glad that the redhead had to keep both eyes on the road and couldn't look above his shoulder to mock his desperate expression, born out of fear mixed with resignation regarding his fate. With no idea where they were headed to, Jon had no other choice than wait until they stopped, either for gas or food or rest, and try to run away then. Was it such a wise decision, though?

His odds at surviving seemed to increase if he stuck with Tormund, as demonstrated by the recent events. After all, the man had not treated him badly during his few days of captivity, going as far as to fight off Bones when the latter had tried to strangle him... Meaning that Tormund had saved his hide twice already. Besides, once and if he ditched the ginger man, what would Jon do, dressed like this in the middle of the snow, with nothing but his two feet to carry him back to Winterfell? Where would he find help? The Night's Watch was after him, so who was to say that no one else would be?

All things considered, staying with Tormund sounded both smarter and safer than trying to escape. That was strange, to say the least... Wasn't the man part of the Free Folk, who'd been his family's enemy for years and before that, the Targaryens'? Yet Jon could not forget what he'd realised during his short time in their hands: the Northern tribes had been massacred by the Targaryens when all they wanted to do was live and keep their ancestral lands. His father might not have mistreated the Free Folk since his coronation but he hadn't negotiated a truce with them either...

Jon couldn't push away the next thought that popped into his head. What was his father's role in all this? Did he know about the Night's Watch's betrayal? He couldn't believe that he did... Jon might not be popular with some people at Winterfell, the queen included, but he knew that his father loved him. He would not buy that Ned Stark had sent his elite troops on a mission to kill him. Perhaps the soldier who'd aimed his rifle at him was a lone, rogue man who didn't like him much and had seen the opportunity to rid the royal family of its lasting stain... No. Impossible. The Night's Watch was made up of men whose loyalty was beyond all suspicion. Then why had that soldier tried to kill him?

A headache was starting to hammer the insides of his skull when Jon suddenly remembered Tormund's words, coming out in a rush as the man gripped his shoulders and pulled him up to his feet. He'd said that the Night's Watch wasn't what it seemed, which sounded rather ominous. Could Jon made the same choice as before and trust the redhead on that, too? Where was the line that he should not cross? More importantly, if Tormund had told him the truth, what was wrong with the Night's Watch?

The elite soldiers took their orders from two people only, their commander and the king. Commander Mormont liked Jon, had even suggested that he joined the troops, and he couldn't imagine that the old man would somehow be involved in treason. Neither would his father, which meant that... Something had gone terribly wrong at Winterfell. Jon felt like he'd been cut away from his family for far longer than he actually had and a chilling fear suddenly spread through his veins, turning his blood into ice. What if... What if something had happened to his father?

What if the Free Folk had lied to him and had not only decided to trade Robb for their lands but also to get rid of the king? Widowed, Catelyn would have agreed to anything to get her oldest son back... Jon fought to push down the panic that had started to rise inside him and tried to keep a clear head. Bones had failed, he reminded himself with some urgency, the Young Wolf was safe at Winterfell and if their father was sick and didn't hold the reins of the kingdom anymore, Robb would have stepped in. He'd never have sent the Night's Watch to kill his brother and best friend. Then... what if there had been some kind of rebellion against his family? What if the Starks didn't control Winterfell anymore? What if the Night's Watch was obeying to a usurper?

Jon yelped when Tormund pulled to an abrupt stop, his pitiful sound of surprise muffled by the helmet. Lost in his fright, he had not noticed any change in the pace of the bike but there they were anyway, _there_ meaning on the side of the road and in front of an old house. The snow-covered fields from before had given way to scattered little houses, probably not even a village, and a better look revealed to Jon that those were most-likely abandoned, given the shattered glass on a few windows and the overall atmosphere of decrepitude oozing from the stone walls. The roof looked about to collapse under the weight of the snow.

His contemplation was cut short when Tormund turned to glance at him with a significant look and Jon was about to bark a sharp _what?_ when he realised that the redhead was waiting for him to get down the bike so he could do the same. Right. The young man clumsily slid off, this close to fall flat on his face, and he hissed when his frozen feet hit the solid ground and pain shot up his legs, as if his toes had just shattered like delicate crystal. His urge to demand explanations and answers to his questions vanished at the sensation and instead of throwing angry commands at Tormund, Jon wrapped his stiff arms around himself and his thin dress shirt, shivering in the cold.

"Bloody hell," he muttered between his chattering teeth.

A snort answered him and he glared at the redhead who had just taken off his helmet and was clearly making fun of him, although he quickly schooled his face in a neutral expression. Jon wasn't fooled.

"Let's get you inside," Tormund suggested, splaying his large palm across Jon's shoulder blades to push him towards one of the houses and its door, that he unlocked with a key that he might as well have magically summoned out of thin air.

Jon didn't protest at the shoving and shuffled inside, glad that the walls provided shelter against the strong winds of winter, and his numb fingers worked at his helmet to remove it. It took some time but he eventually succeeded, and he was grateful that Tormund hadn't offered his help, even though he'd obviously witnessed his miserable fight against the helmet. His pride was bruised enough as it was.

"Where are we?" he slurred, his lips somewhat numb as well.

Tormund didn't answer. He walked further inside the house and Jon grudgingly followed him, his plans of escape well and truly forgotten now that he was surrounded by four walls: he didn't really feel like walking out again. After a few more steps through a narrow hallway with peeling paint, Jon arrived in what seemed to be a living-room, judging by the beat-up couch he found there, next to a dead potted plant on a coffee table that had seen better days. He was met with Tormund's back as the man was on his knees before the hearth of a fireplace, where he assembled a pile of dry logs, tinder and crumpled balls of newspaper that he lighted up thanks to a dusty box of matches that had been left on the side by a previous tenant of the house.

Soon, the flames spread from the newspaper to the wood and Jon came closer, his toes begging to just break free of his socks and shoes to wriggle in front of the crackling fire. Tormund had other ideas, though. He stood up, then looked Jon up and down with narrowed eyes.

"Bathroom's upstairs," he said, "You should change or you'll catch your death."

"No shit," Jon grumbled, too exhausted to be nice or even grateful, but he stepped away from the fireplace and went to look for the staircase all the same.

"Over here," Tormund called without taking offense of Jon's tone, and he grabbed his shoulder to steer him in the right direction.

"I can walk on my own."

"Doesn't look like it," the redhead shot back, amused by the young man's heavy steps and staggering gait.

Jon scowled, even though he could see the truth in that statement, and he let out an indignant puff when Tormund pushed him forward again and led him to the bathroom. Just like the other rooms in the house that Jon had already seen, it looked tatty; a few spiders had established their webby homes in the corners between the ceiling and the walls, which were decorated with impressive mould, and the dirty mirror above the sink was cracked.

"Does this place even have running water?" Jon muttered.

"It's an old safe house of my people," Tormund explained unprompted and he almost sounded like he was apologising for the pitiful condition of the place. "Didn't have to use it for a while..."

Nice way to make Jon feel guilty for complaining about the house. If it weren't for him and the Night's Watch coming for his head, they wouldn't have found themselves there, with spiders and cockroaches as companions...

"Towels should be in the cabinet under the sink," Tormund added, "I'll try to find you clothes."

The redhead left shortly after that and Jon glanced at the aforementioned cabinet, wondering what kind of monster would come out of it if he even dared to open it. He eventually did it, though with no slight amount of trepidation but an acute twinge of pain in his chest as he suddenly remembered that Rickon hated spiders. He briefly wondered if he would ever see his little brother again but pushed the thought away at once: now wasn't the time for self-pity.

There was, surprisingly enough, no leggy beast inside the cupboard but a few towels and bath cloths that had been spared by dust for the most part. Behind him, the shower stall was caked with sediment in different places but Jon was too cold to care. After he made sure that there was, in fact, running water that wasn't just as freezing as the weather outside, he stripped and stepped into the stall; the water felt too hot on his cold skin and he let out a hiss as it burned, although he sort of welcomed the warmth at the same time.

Jon didn't stay under the spray for long, only the time to wash away the grit from his two days in captivity. First, the pressure was so low it was nearly uncomfortable to shower, as he had to twist all the time if he wanted to keep his whole body under the water and not shiver to his death. Second, his nakedness made him feel vulnerable, which was not the best situation considering that there was a giant redhead downstairs who might as well be plotting his death while Jon was busy in the bathroom. He trusted Tormund... to an extent. Jon didn't want to die naked. He wouldn't be able to feel self-conscious anymore if it happened, he thought as he got out of the shower and wrapped himself in a large towel, but it would certainly be awkward for the people who would find his body... _If_ someone found his body. Perhaps Tormund would bury him himself. Or eat him. Did the Free Folk eat people?

Jon's silly considerations derailed when the door of the bathroom swung open and he jumped, tightening his hold on the towel as he stared with wide eyes at the redhead who'd just invaded his space without a care in the world.

"Here," Tormund said without blinking, "Clothes. You're tiny but they should fit... More or less."

He threw the bundle of clothes that he'd gathered in his hands to Jon, who automatically caught them - and dropped the towel in the process. Tormund stared.

"Out," Jon seethed as he scrambled for the fabric at his feet and felt his cheeks burn, "Out, now."

"You Southerners are such prudes," Tormund snorted, "Relax, Little Crow. It's not like I haven't seen another man's body before."

Jon didn't know what to make of that last comment but he, thankfully, didn't need to answer since the redhead stepped back out as swiftly as he'd come in, giving him no time at all to react. Except that Jon really, really wanted to have the last word in this conversation.

"I'm not a Southerner!" he eventually yelled to the closed door and beyond, to what he imagined was Tormund's retreating back.

He grudgingly put the towel that had become useless next to the sink and examined the clothes Tormund had so helpfully supplied for him. The trousers and the soft woollen sweater didn't look like the kind of clothes that Loras Tyrell, Sansa's favourite _Southern_ model, would wear but at least they were clean which, in this abandoned house, had not been a given. Jon put them on and wasn't very much pleased to realise that he had to roll up not only the legs of the pants but also the sleeves of the sweater - what truly bugged him though, was that Tormund had been right: in this oversized outfit, the broken mirror revealed that he did look small.

It also showed him his dark eyes and drooping eyelids, tired from the fast and cold journey to this safe house. His face was bruised, his skin pink and shiny from the hot shower, but not rosy enough to hide the blue tinge around his nose, courtesy of Bones' fist. Thinking of the brute suddenly made him wonder what had happened to him and the rest of the Free Folk: before he found himself face to face with a soldier, Jon had heard the gunshots and the screams around the building - he just didn't know which side had made it out alive, although the fact that Tormund and he had run away instead of joining the Free Folk was probably enough to understand what had happened. Were they the only survivors, though?

He guessed now was the time for the explanations Tormund had denied him earlier, so once he was fully dressed and had managed to find a comb to put through his tangled curls, Jon cautiously tiptoed down the stairs, barefooted and discreet. Sneaking up on Tormund would be extremely satisfying.

He found the man in what could have been called a kitchen, on a good day. As it was, dust had settled onto the counters and Jon doubted there was anything left to eat in the fridge... He stopped on the threshold of the room and stared at Tormund's back, waiting a few seconds to see if the man had heard him. When it appeared that he had not, Jon cleared his throat and he was disappointed when Tormund turned his head but didn't jump in surprise when he saw him there, shoulder propped against the door jamb.

The redhead quirked an eyebrow at the sight of Jon in his oversized clothes.

"Cute," he commented with a teasing grin, which turned Jon's disappointment into offended anger.

"Shut up," he snapped with annoyance that only grew when Tormund laughed at him, and he poured all his frustration and indignation into his tone as he added, "What happened back there? You said you'd explain... So explain, _now_."

Tormund suddenly quit smiling, his large grin melting like snow under the sun. Only then did Jon notice the blood smeared across the man's face, although he could not see any wound beneath the red spots. Not _his_ blood, then... Was it the Night's Watch's or the Free Folk's?

"That's no discussion to have on an empty stomach," Tormund said, "We should eat first. Regain our strength, to face whatever's coming for us next."

"I doubt there's anything edible left in this place," Jon pointed out, eyebrows high and irritation seeping through his voice, "You might as well explain yourself now."

"You want some tea, little crow?" the redhead asked instead, stepping aside to show what he'd been busy with: a kettle warmed by a blue flame coming from one of the gas stove burners.

Jon stared at Tormund in disbelief. Was he making fun of him? Did he not think that Jon was serious, that he really wanted to know what went down earlier, why he'd nearly been shot by his father's man?

"I'm leaving," Jon said out of the blue as he wheeled round, not even sure himself that he was bluffing, "Enjoy your tea."

"What?!" Tormund spluttered behind him.

Jon ignored the hurried footfalls that followed him and he strode through the hallway, heading for the door.

"I'm stealing your bike," Jon decided, "and I'm going back to Winterfell, on my own. Thanks for the rescue party."

"You're crazy," Tormund breathed out, eventually stopping a few meters away from Jon, as if he didn't believe that the younger man would go through with his plan. "Two hours ago, you had never been on a bike in your life! How do you think you'll even ride one?"

"I'm a fast-learner," Jon shot back.

"And _I_ have the keys," Tormund added with an inelegant snort, "but please go on. Do they teach you how to hotwire a bike in Winterfell?"

Shit. Tormund had a point, not that Jon would ever admit to that. He glared at him, which only seemed to amuse the man even more, and Jon deflated. He didn't know how to ride a bike, had no idea how to hotwire one, his oversized sweater would not be a good enough protection against the cold temperatures outside the house and he would have one hell of a hard time to find their current location on a map. Going back to Winterfell all by himself was a beautiful dream.

"You're infuriating," he finally groaned.

"Me?" Tormund exclaimed, " _I_ am infuriating? Do you hear yourself? You attacked me on our first meeting!"

"I was your prisoner!" Jon protested, thinking back to his tied wrists and ankles. "I..."

He grew quiet at once. _I was your prisoner_. Well... He still was. His arms and legs might not be bound anymore and he'd been able to shower and get fresh clothes, but the slight betterment of his condition did not mean that anything had changed. The fact that Tormund didn't shoot any snarky comeback probably meant that he was thinking the same. Crap.

The silence between them was starting to feel awkward, after all their bickering and righteous indignation. They both jumped out of their skin when three knocks were suddenly rasped on the door from the outside, halted, each one distant from the other by two or three seconds, and Jon was so relieved to have something to do and escape Tormund's watchful eyes that he didn't think this through, at all.

"I'll get it," he decided, striding toward the door and not noticing the redhead's wide eyes.

"Jon, no!" Tormund shouted behind him.

Oh, Jon, _yes_ , he thought viciously. If only to piss him off.

He regretted it as soon as he swung the door open and he froze when he saw who stood on the other side... but he should have known. What an idiot! Who, other than the Free Folk themselves, would knock on the door of one of their safe houses using what was clearly a code to make sure they were in the same camp?

In front of him stood Ygritte, her red hair wilder than ever. The dry droplets of blood on her face made her fair skin look even paler and she blanched at the sight of her enemy in a place he shouldn't even know existed. Jon detected a hint of bewilderment at his presence but it morphed into deep anger in mere seconds, though it wasn't strong enough to hide the raw grief shaping her face into a desperate mask... that was suddenly distorted by a hateful smirk. Jon only had the time to catch Tormund's hurried footsteps behind him and then...

"You make it so easy, Jon Snow," Ygritte snarled.

She took a knife out of her belt and stepped forward in the same heartbeat, her grip around the weapon tight and determined as she raised the blade. Jon saw his death reflected in her eyes and he stopped breathing.

"Ygritte, no!" Tormund yelled.

It was far too late, and the fierce women of the Free Folk slashed away.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion in the comments, as always! I wish you all a merry Christmas if you celebrate it and have a good start of 2020 ;)


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